


night passes by (taking the stars)

by symphony7inAmajor



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Small Town, Dramatic, Lighthouses, M/M, Magic, Merpeople, Original Character(s), Sea Monsters, Vikings, and full of yearning, i needed some eleventh century random people and also petey's great grandparents (x85), it is tender, or perhaps?, skating dates and hijinks whatever, there is so much in this i'm not sure what to tag but uh basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 06:23:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20286850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/symphony7inAmajor/pseuds/symphony7inAmajor
Summary: A thousand years ago, a curse sent a group of renowned Norse raiders to live in the sea. Now, magic has been forgotten by most people and the descendants of the Vikings remain hidden at the bottom of the ocean.But nothing stays hidden forever.The guy lookslike a guy, but not completely. His throat is marred by two identical gashes on either side, his ears long and pointed. He reaches up to climb in, showing off nearly transparent webs between his fingers and blue fins on his forearms. Where the fin joins his skin, his skin isn’tskin,but blue, fishlike scales.Brock drops his flashlight.It hits the ground with a softclank,the light flashing wildly around the small space and casting twisted shadows on the walls. The guy looks over at the light, then at Brock. He looks kind of unimpressed. Somehow, that makes Brock feel better. At least the fish-guy probably isn’t going to eat him. He hopes.





	night passes by (taking the stars)

**Author's Note:**

> m: hey what if petey was a creacher. also the inherent homoeroticism of lighthouses.
> 
> me: keep talking right now
> 
> psa: call me a scaly and perish by guillermo del toro's blade
> 
> well... here it is. the longest thing i've ever written. so much that i left out (imagine countless messages about concepts for this) but i think what's left is still Pretty Good. i actually wrote a non-quoted summary for it.
> 
> i even wrote an actual prologue for the context of it all. look at me, trying to be all Cool. don't worry, the prologue is only like 1k words of dramatic eleventh century norse stuff but hey you don't come to me if you're not looking for dramatics. 
> 
> speaking of dramatics: check the end notes for possible warnings 
> 
> title is from "echoes in rain" by enya. yes. that enya.

_ 1058 A.D. Rhineland _

Summer in the Rhineland has brought the same things every year for as long as all those living can remember. Warm weather, blooming flowers, and the raiders. 

The raiders from the northern lands sail down the Rhine in their longships, taking what they want. When the sails of the ships appear on the horizon, everyone, men and women alike, take up any arms they can, be it swords or spears or spells. Every time, they are defeated. The Vikings simply have _ better _ swords and spears and spells.

At least, they have until today. 

The sun is bright, hardly a cloud in the sky besides a few scudding across the horizon, but the wind is far away and does not touch the person standing on the bank of the river. She is waiting for the Vikings. Without the wind, the spellcasters on board the ships are tiring themselves out by propelling themselves along by twisting the currents. They are not worried. Why should they be? Even tired spellcasters are dangerous, and the Vikings are still better warriors. 

The woman is waiting for the raiders on the shoreline. She is the oldest woman in the village, her memory longer than any others. The water just barely touches the hem of her dress. She looks kind, the wrinkles on her face telling stories of a life filled with laughter, but the expression on her face is grim and solemn. She has a smooth riverstone in her hand. 

The first ship slows to a stop. A man appears, heavily armored but without a helmet. He has a shock of blond hair and a beard to match. He’s slender, still young, but almost everyone on this side of the Rhine has seen the way Peter wields a spear. The woman turns the stone in her hand, once, twice, and again. 

“You should not have come back,” she says. Her voice is not loud, but it carries across the water. Some of the men on board laugh.

“But we did,” Peter says, smiling a little. He shows no surprise at being addressed in his native tongue.

“Yes,” she agrees. She waits patiently for the other two ships to stop, the stone still turning, then she speaks again. “Now you know that there is no one to blame for this but yourselves.” A few men look confused. A spellcaster, a woman so blonde her hair appears white, joins Peter at the side of the ship. Her face is pale and sweaty, but the set of her jaw reveals her strength.

“Speak plainly,” the woman says, “or you will soon not speak at all.” She drops a hand menacingly to the blade at her hip.

“Two summers ago,” the old woman says to Peter, “you killed my grandson. He was sixteen, barely a man.” Her hand tightens around the stone. “Last summer, you took his older sister to be a thrall, taking her from the arms of the man who was to be her husband. You killed him as well.” Her voice is louder now. She has to shout over the wind. “You and your people have tormented me and mine for too long,” she cries. “You claim to love the sea. I will give it to you, for the rest of your lives and the lives of your children, and their children. Until the seas turn to dust, I will give them to you, and you will never return to torment us again.” 

The expressions of the raiders have turned from bemused to frightened. The wind is howling around them, the hulls of the ships groaning and the sails tearing. Storm clouds gather overhead. Some of the spellcasters on board try to counter the spell, but it is too little and much too late. 

The old woman raises the riverstone above her head. It rises off the palm of her hand, spinning fast enough that it seems like little more than a pale blur, then the lightning comes down and strikes it with a flash of brilliant white light. 

The light fades after a moment, leaving the would-be raiders to stare at the burned, shriveled husk of what was the most powerful spellcaster west of the Caspian Sea. For a heartbeat, those on the ships think they are going to be alright. 

The villagers, roused by the sound of the explosion, crest the hill just in time to see a single webbed foot disappear into the river. 

* * *

_August, 2019 A.D. Lake Superior, Minnesota_

The storm has been going strong for almost an hour when Brock hears something else. He thinks he’s imagining it, at first. The thunder and the sound of crashing waves are pretty much all he can think about, so when he hears a quiet banging sound, he ignores it. When it starts again, louder this time, he jumps up and climbs down the ladder to the door. 

Crouched on the metal floor, he considers his options. Only a crazy person would try to walk out on the breakwater during a storm like this, and _ nobody _ would be able to make it this far without being swept away by the wind and waves. Brock places a hand on the handle to pull the door up and hesitates. Maybe someone fell out of their boat and swam for light, but even then that makes no sense. No sane person would try boating in this weather.

The sound comes again. It sounds like a knock this time, quieter than it was before. Brock opens the hatch. A flash of lightning lights up the world just for an instant, but it’s enough for Brock to get an eyeful of the knocker. 

Looking up at him, pale-faced and pale-eyed, is a man. Only—not. His face is smooth, so he’s probably not that much younger than Brock. More a boy than a man, but that’s not what’s so shocking about him. 

The guy _ looks _ like a guy, but not completely. His throat is marred by two identical gashes on either side, his ears long and pointed. He reaches up to climb in, showing off nearly transparent webs between his fingers and blue fins on his forearms. Where the fin joins his skin, his skin isn’t _ skin, _ but blue, fishlike scales. 

Brock drops his flashlight.

It hits the ground with a soft _ clank, _ the light flashing wildly around the small space and casting twisted shadows on the walls. The guy looks over at the light, then at Brock. He looks kind of unimpressed. Somehow, that makes Brock feel better. At least the fish-guy probably isn’t going to eat him. He hopes. Better figure that one out while he can still knock the guy off the ladder.

“Um,” Brock says. His voice comes out a little bit squeaky. The guy blinks at him. Brock notices during the blink that the guy has an extra, transparent eyelid. _ Like a frog, _ he doesn’t say. That might be insulting. He clears his throat. “Are you going to eat me?” he asks. “Uh, ‘cause if you are, you can’t come in.” 

“I—” The guy pauses. Brock, meanwhile, feels briefly startled that the guy can actually _ speak. _ He thinks he might be in shock. _ “Eat _ you?” He frowns, his face scrunching up a little in disgust. 

“Yeah, like.” Brock mimes putting something in his mouth and chewing. He raises his eyebrows expectantly. The guy is looking at him like he already knows what _ eating _ means and really would like to just get out of the storm. 

“Hmm,” says the guy. “No, thank you.”

“Oh, well,” Brock says, reaching out to help him into the lighthouse properly, “that’s okay then.” The guy’s skin is cool and clammy against his, and the scales are sharp where Brock’s fingers brush against them. The guy gasps and winces when he’s finally inside, lowering himself carefully to the floor. Brock picks up the flashlight again. 

Like on his neck, the guy has what seem to be wounds on either side of his abdomen. Brock has been around fish for a long time, though, and in the steady light he recognizes them for what they are; not injuries, but _ gills. _ On one side of his body, a shock against the pale skin, is a dark mottling of bruises, almost like he fell on something. 

He’s also very naked. 

Brock points the flashlight somewhere else and stares resolutely over the guy’s shoulder at the wall. There’s a long silence.

The guy stands, swaying on his feet a bit. He leans against the wall like he can’t keep standing, one hand pressing against his side where the bruising looks particularly vicious. 

Brock’s mother raised him to always be polite to strangers, though, so he gets over himself and reaches out to him cautiously.

“I can’t take you back to my place in this weather,” he says, “but if you don’t mind waiting out the storm here, I can help you.” Brock keeps his hand outstretched, not wanting to touch the guy in case he freaks out. The guy doesn’t move, looking between Brock’s face and his hand hesitantly. “Uh, my name’s Brock,” he adds. 

“Elias,” the guy—Elias says, soft enough that Brock isn’t sure if he heard right. 

“Elias?” Brock repeats, probably butchering the pronunciation. Elias grimaces, but he nods before he extends his hand for Brock to take. Brock relaxes a little at the show of trust, and tugs him away from the wall and towards the ladder. He can feel the webs between Elias’s fingers, less slippery than a frog’s, rougher, unfamiliar. He ignores it. “Here,” Brock says. “We have to go up to the lantern room.” Brock climbs up first, for. Well. Obvious reasons. Plus, he knows Elias can climb a ladder, since he had to do it to get up to the hatch in the first place.

Brock crouches at the top of the ladder and looks back down. It’s hard to see into the dark space now that the light is right beside him, but he can hear the soft sounds of Elias’s hands against the bars. When Elias reaches to pull himself into the room, his hand slips and he falls back. Brock reaches out quickly and catches him by the wrist, his palm scraping against the scales scattered at the base of the fin on Elias’s forearm. Elias jolts to a stop, but his free hand flies to his bruised side and he whimpers. 

“Oh my god,” Brock says, hurrying to pull him into the room and sit him down. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry, I—”

“Brock,” Elias says flatly. Brock shuts his mouth so fast that he hears his teeth click together. Elias settles with his back to the light, drawing his legs into his chest and wrapping his arms around his knees. “It is not your fault. I was hurt before. Maybe broken.” He touches his side lightly, wincing. _ Broken. _ Brock doesn’t know what to do with a broken rib, besides, like, going to the hospital, but that’s obviously not an option. Brock’s at least ninety percent sure the government would be interested in a fishman. Still, he can’t help but worry.

Like, what if it’s more than one broken rib? What if his lungs have been punctured and he’s dying? What if—

Brock shakes his head, trying to think of things that are actually useful. Lightning flashes outside. An explosive clap of thunder follows barely a heartbeat later. Elias flinches, curling in closer on himself.

“Are you afraid of the storm?” Brock blurts. He can’t really see Elias’s expression because of the shadows, but he’s pretty sure it’s unimpressed. 

“Not _ afraid,” _ Elias says, like the word itself disgusts him. His statement is punctuated by another clap of thunder. He jumps, dropping his head miserably. “Maybe a little,” he amends, voice shaky. Brock softens. He reaches for his bag, fumbling through his tools until he finds what he’s looking for. He crawls over to Elias, who looked up at the first sounds of Brock’s tools moving around.

“Do you want, uh.” Brock holds out the inner lining of his rain jacket. He’d taken it off and stuffed it in his bag when he’d left the house, the fleece too warm for what he’d thought to be a short, summer evening rainfall. He squishes the fabric in his hand. “It’s soft. And warm. You’d be more comfortable, um. If you want.” Elias is staring at him, wide-eyed and with a strange look on his face. He touches the fleece, running his hand over it slowly. 

“How,” Elias says, suddenly looking lost. He motions to the fins on his forearms, the line of spines down his back. 

“Here, just.” Brock presses gently on Elias’s shoulder, on his non-injured side, encouraging him to lean forward a little. He considers Elias’s spines. Brock doesn’t know fishpeople, but he _ does _ know fish, and the way his spines are bristling and stiff makes Brock feel relatively sure he’s stressed, frightened. Not exactly a surprise.

Slowly, like he’s approaching a spooked animal, Brock lays his hand at the base of Elias’s neck, right where his spines starts. 

“Trust me?” Brock asks. He smiles sheepishly, hoping Elias can tell that he wants to help. Elias doesn’t say anything, but he also doesn’t try to knock Brock’s hand away. It’d be easy; he’s barely putting any pressure on him. Brock nods once, then runs a hand down Elias’s back. 

Elias twitches. Brock marvels at the feeling of the cool, rough scales alongside smooth skin that’s warming up quickly now that Elias is out of the storm. His spines still won’t lie flat. Brock tries again, more slowly this time.

He pretends not to hear the soft sigh Elias lets out when he stops, busying himself with draping the fleece over the now-malleable spines. He helps Elias get his arms into the sleeves, then demonstrates how to zip it up.

He doesn’t really want to start off this relationship by sticking his hands in Elias’s lap. 

Elias is a couple inches taller than him, enough to notice but not enough to make much of a difference as far as clothing goes, but he’s _ skinny. _ Brock’s fleece sits weirdly on his shoulders and bunches in weird places. 

At the next burst of lightning and thunder, Elias twists his hands into the fabric and tucks his face into the collar. Brock stares out the windows at the rain.

They sit like that for what feels like hours, but is probably less. They don’t talk much, either. Brock points out that the storm is moving away and not long after that, the rain starts to lighten up a little. Checking his watch, Brock notices that it’s just after five in the morning. He looks out the window again. It’s still pitch dark outside.

Brock considers the likelihood of slipping off the breakwater and drowning. He decides to believe that Elias would at least _ try _ to help him if that happens. Good enough. 

“Let’s go,” Brock says. Elias startles, blinking at him in confusion. Brock shoulders his bag. 

“Why?” Elias says. He looks outside, lightning flashing in the distance. Brock switches on his flashlight.

“We can’t stay here, and if we wait too long you’ll be seen. So unless you want to be taken away by bad people, then—”

“No,” Elias interrupts. His face is white in the light of the flashlight beam. “Don’t want that.”

When Elias stands up, Brock gets the unfortunate reminder that, while he gave Elias a sweater, he didn’t get any pants.

“Okay,” Brock says. “Um. We’re going to have to go fast, because my house isn’t far but if you get caught like this, we’ll get in a lot of trouble, okay?” Elias tugs fruitlessly at the hem of the fleece, looking embarrassed. 

The air outside the lighthouse is fresh and much cooler than it was before the storm. Goosebumps pop up on Brock’s bare arms. He gave his rain jacket to Elias to tie around his waist. He points his flashlight out over the breakwater. The light scatters on puddles.

Brock reaches out, waiting. After a moment, Elias takes his hand.

They move down the breakwater as quickly and as carefully as they can, Elias tightening his hold every time Brock’s rubber-soled shoes slip on the stone. The rain is nowhere near as heavy as it was, but it hasn’t stopped yet. By the time they step off the breakwater, Brock’s shirt is soaked through. A quick glance at Elias proves that at least one of them is having an okay time. 

Elias has his face tilted up to the rain, the corners of his lips turned up just enough that it looks like a smile. The water is running through his hair, over his cheeks, down his neck.

Brock stares.

Elias notices that they’ve stopped walking and blinks his eyes open. Brock looks away quickly, pretending to look around. 

“Looks like we’re clear,” he says, hushed. He immediately feels stupid, like he’s in one of those weird secret agent shows that Troy likes so much. 

“I don’t know what that means,” Elias says, snarky. Brock is delighted. Elias can _ snark. _

“Means it’s time to hurry up,” Brock says cheerfully. He moves forward at a pace that can only generously be called a jog, Elias right beside him.

It doesn’t take long at all to get to Brock’s house. It’s not the old keeper’s house—that’s a museum now—but it’s on the outskirts of town and barely five minutes’ walk from the lighthouse on a good day.

Brock opens the door with a relieved sigh and peels off his wet shirt. It hits the hardwood floor with a gross smack, and Brock makes a note to pick it up later. He dumps his bag and turns around. 

Elias is leaning against the door, face pinched and pale. His hand is fluttering over his bruises like he wants to make it stop hurting. His breathing is shallow. 

“Going fast,” he says through gritted teeth, “not a good idea.” Brock feels ashamed for not thinking of Elias’s broken ribs, but Elias shakes his head. “This pain still better than being caught, yes?” He smiles wryly. “Do you think?”

“Still,” Brock says, “I’m sorry.” He offers Elias his arm. “Come with me?” Elias takes it.

Brock leads him through the house. Elias makes interested noises a few times, but Brock pulls him along until they get to the bathroom. He sits Elias down on the toilet seat and starts filling the bathtub.

Elias looks confused.

“What,” he says, “is that.” He squints suspiciously at the bathtub.

“It’s a bathtub. We fill them with water to wash ourselves, sometimes.” Brock eyes the fleece. It drips rainwater onto the floor. “Take off the fleece,” Brock says. “I need to dry it.” Elias looks like he wants to ask questions, but instead he obeys. He hands Brock the fleece. It makes a weird, squishy noise. 

Brock drops it on the floor. 

Only the lamp above the mirror is on, making everything look dim gold and shadowy, but Brock can tell how brutal Elias’s injury is. He wants to ask how it happened, but he’s not sure that Elias would tell him. 

Brock holds out a hand for Elias, who takes it without hesitation and heaves himself upright. He limps to the bathtub with Brock’s help.

The bathtub is old, a massive, claw-footed thing that Brock’s used maybe twice in the three years he’s lived in the house. Elias is able to sink under the water easily. Brock watches, fascinated, as his gills take over the breathing. He surfaces for a second.

“Hurts less to breathe like this,” Elias says, looking pleased. He moves back under the surface and closes his eyes. 

Brock steps out of the bathroom but leaves the door open. He hears soft splashing sounds, like Elias is shifting around to get more comfortable.

He needs to call someone.

“Brock? It’s six in the morning, what are you—”

“I need your help.” Brock interrupts Bo’s sleep-addled questions. “And aren’t you supposed to be at the hospital?”

“It’s my day off,” Bo says, followed by a strange sound that’s probably Bo screaming into his pillow. Bo returns to the line with a sigh. “What do you need?”

“This is a question for Doctor Horvat,” Brock says. That’ll wake him up in a hurry.

“What happened?” Bo says urgently, sounding much more lucid. 

“Just hypothetically,” Brock says, “what would you do if someone broke their ribs?”

Silence.

“Brock,” Bo says in the tone that means he’s working himself up to something, “what did you _ do?” _

“I’m fine!” Brock insists. “Don’t you think I’d take myself to the ER if I thought my ribs were broken? When I’m friends with a _ doctor?” _

“Okay,” Bo says. He still sounds suspicious, but less like he’s going to have a fit. “Okay, so whatever you do, don’t wrap it….”

A few minutes of Brock “Uh huh”ing and furiously noting down everything Bo tells him later, Brock hangs up and goes to the kitchen to get some ice. While he’s rummaging in the kitchen, there’s a scream from the bathroom. 

Brock drops all his ice and sprints back to the bathroom.

Elias is still in the bathtub, but half-standing and with his hands outstretched defensively.

In front of him, tail wagging, is Coolie.

Brock whistles, catching the attention of both the dog and Elias. Coolie trots over to him, nails clicking against the tile. 

“Hey, buddy,” Brock says. He leans down to rub Coolie’s neck. Coolie wags his tail.

“What,” Elias says, strained, “is that.” At the sound of his voice, Coolie turns excitedly. Brock gets a hand in his collar and leads him out of the bathroom. He shuts the door. Elias is sitting down again, but he’s tense, gripping the side of the tub. 

“Sorry,” Brock says. It feels awfully inadequate, looking at the way Elias is pale and trembling. His spines are bristling and stiff like he’s unconsciously trying to make himself look bigger. “Hey, it’s okay. Coolie’s a good dog.” Brock shuffles his feet, unsure if approaching would be welcome right now. 

Elias helps make that decision for him when he bursts into tears.

For a second, Brock doesn’t even _ move, _ shocked by the sudden display of emotion. Elias’s hands fly up to cover his face, his body shaking with the force of his sobs, then Brock is kneeling beside the tub. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. 

How does he _ start _ trying to comfort a person like Elias? Brock bites his lip, feeling very underqualified, and reaches out to rest a hand on the back of Elias’s neck. 

Elias barely reacts, just presses his hands harder into his face. Like he did in the lighthouse, Brock runs his hand down his back, the tiny blue scales catching against his calluses.

“I’m suh-sorry,” Elias says, his voice unsteady and muffled by his palms. He doesn’t say anything else. He’s taking shallow breaths, and Brock realizes that he’s trying not to hurt his ribs. He keeps rubbing his back, murmuring nonsense to calm him down. By the time Elias’s breathing has evened out, he’s sitting with his face in his hands, and Brock is essentially just petting the hair at the base of his skull. He carefully runs his fingers through his short hair and Elias lets out a sigh, relaxing just a bit. “Thank you,” Elias says finally. 

His face is blotchy red, but Brock can’t tell how much of it is from embarrassment or from crying. He sniffles and wipes his eyes. Something deep inside tells Brock not to ask, so he doesn’t. He stands up, knees a little stiff, and gets Elias a towel. Elias is already standing when Brock turns around. 

“Here.” Brock holds out the towel. “Dry off a bit and we’ll ice your ribs, okay?” Elias takes the towel hesitantly.

“Okay,” he says. He pats at his arm with the towel, frowning. Brock tries to hold his smile back. Elias is, after all, awfully cute. 

Brock goes to his room while Elias tries to figure out the towel to get some clothes for him. He figures some basketball shorts will be fine on their own for now, since he wants to check out Elias’s injuries.

Coolie is lying on the couch, dozing, so Brock gives Elias the shorts and lets Coolie out into the backyard while he dresses. 

As soon as Elias walks into the kitchen, finally wearing some pants, Brock sits him down in one of the dining chairs, pulling his own chair up close so he can examine him. The bruising is almost black near the center, the edges yellow and green. 

“Is it hard to breathe?” Brock asks. Elias blinks at him slowly. 

“Yes?” he says. “My ribs are broken.” Brock winces. It was, perhaps, a stupid question.

“I mean, uh, do you feel like there’s stuff in your lungs, like,” he waves a hand vaguely, “blood, or something?” Elias takes a deep breath, pushing through the pain he must be in. He shakes his head. “Well,” Brock says brightly, “that’s a good sign.” 

“Hmm,” Elias says. He watches Brock wrap his ice packs in dish towels.

“The ice will help with the pain,” Brock explains. “It should help with swelling and stuff, too. Ice won’t make it heal faster though, so you have to rest for a few days.” He presses the ice pack against Elias’s side until Elias brings up his own hand to keep it in place. 

“Rest,” Elias says. He sounds dismayed, and he looks at Brock with a desperate sort of expression. Brock isn’t sure what he’s expecting.

“Yeah, so no, like, running or anything, but for you, I’d say no swimming either.” Brock feels kind of bad when Elias’s expression crumples and he looks like he’s going to cry again, but he tries his best to channel his sensible upbringing. “Hey, I know you want to leave as soon as you can, okay?” He keeps his voice gentle. “I don’t know where you come from or what your story is, but I can tell you that it’ll take you longer to get home with broken ribs than it will if you wait to heal.” 

“You don’t understand,” Elias starts, but Brock interrupts. 

“I can’t say if this is true for you, but if I tried to walk through miles of forest on a broken leg then I’d probably get eaten by a bear.”

“What’s a bear?”

“Look, the point is,” Brock says, “you probably won’t even make it home like this.” Elias, if possible, pales even more. His chin wobbles dangerously. Brock sighs. “I don’t want to scare you, I promise. I just want to help, and I can’t help you if you’re off underwater, okay?”

“Okay,” Elias says, the unfamiliar word heavy on his tongue. He straightens in his chair and levels a look at Brock. “I’ll stay.”

* * *

Summer is almost over, the last of the tourists slowly making their way out of town. Brock still has to, like, do his job during the day, but lighthouse tours and running the museum that used to be the keeper’s house give him relatively easy hours. He has to be away from Elias during most of the day, but he’s home by early evening most nights. It’s only the early morning maintenance he has to do that keeps him away at other times. Still, most of the maintenance is just preparing the lighthouse for winter so nothing important breaks. He has _ months _ for that. 

Unfortunately, spending pretty much all his free time with Elias to make sure he’s going to be okay hasn’t gone unnoticed by his friends. It’s barely been a week, but Brock’s friends are used to hanging out after work when they can. To not see him for days on end… Brock’s worried they’re going to start asking hard questions soon. 

There’s only so long someone can pretend they have a cold and would rather stay in, after all. 

Elias is distracting enough—or maybe that’s not right. Entertaining? Enchanting? Extr—

“Brock? Hey, Brock!” Brock blinks out of his reverie. Elias is looking at him strangely. Brock stares at him. 

When they’d first met, Elias had been skinny enough that Brock has been able to count all his ribs, his skin pale in a grayish sort of way that made his dark bruises stand out. His nervous and untrustworthy attitude had made him hesitant to talk to Brock. A week of rest has done wonders. Now, he looks well-fed on the fish that Brock brings home from the marina after his shift every day—bass is his favourite. His skin is still pale, but his sickly cast is gone. Most excitingly, he actually _ smiles _ sometimes. 

He’s also been going around either shirtless or totally naked. 

Brock, well. He might have a problem. 

Elias cocks an eyebrow. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. He doesn’t sound like he means it in a _ How are you doing? _ sense, but rather _ Are you even remotely paying attention to me? _way. 

“Yeah, sorry,” Brock says. “I got distracted.” Elias squints at him, but then he motions to the book in his lap.

“What does this say?” he asks. Brock scoots closer to take a look. 

Elias, being cooped up in the house all day, every day, has been trying his best to find ways to keep himself entertained. Brock showed him how the TV works, teaching him how to set up Netflix. Elias has been fascinated by nature documentaries about everything from Antarctica to the African savanna to the rainforests of South America.

Brock’s also teaching him different card games, but the webs between his fingers make it hard for him to shuffle the deck and he can only play fun games when Brock is home. 

Still, he hates feeling unproductive, isn’t satisfied with sitting on the couch all day and watching TV. 

Discovering Brock’s books had been a stroke of good luck. 

There are a few kids’ books lying around the house for the days his nephew comes over and Brock wants to read to him, so he’s been using them to teach Elias how to read. Elias is a remarkably fast learner, and a few days later, he only has real trouble with longer words or loan words. 

Brock suggested that first day that he could take Elias to the bookstore. His frightened expression had been answer enough. 

Brock hasn’t brought up taking him into town again. He also hasn’t asked how Elias got here, but the question burns in his mind, brighter every day. 

He doesn’t ask for three weeks. 

Elias has just finished his daily bath, and he’s sitting on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. His hair is still damp, a few strands hanging in front of his face while he eats his fish. Trout, today. 

His bruising is faded, mostly a mottling of ugly greenish-yellow, but still tender to the touch. He’ll probably be fine to leave before long. 

Brock makes himself some toast in silence, occasionally shooting glances towards Elias. He sits beside Elias and sets his plate down, trying to work himself up to _ ask. _

Elias sighs and pushes his fish away, then turns to face Brock. 

“What is it?” he asks. Brock blinks. He shouldn’t be surprised, probably; he’s the only person Elias knows, and they’ve been spending hours together for more than twenty days straight. Plus, Elias is smart. Still, Brock’s a little impressed by his intuition. 

“I was just—well, you’re almost better, so I was wondering, uh. When you’re going to leave.” Brock bites the inside of his cheek. Elias folds his hands in his lap, staring at them while he runs the fingers of one over the webs of the other. 

“I don’t know if I can,” Elias says quietly. Brock frowns. 

“What do you mean? You _ got _ here, didn’t you? Don’t you have to, you know, swim the other way?”

“That’s the thing,” Elias says. He rubs his hands over the fins on his forearms like he’s cold, and shivers. “I didn’t _ come _ here. I was taken.” Brock leans back in his seat, shocked. 

“What happened?” he whispers, his mind flying through all kinds of different scenarios, each worse than the one before. Elias gets up, gesturing for Brock to follow, and goes to sit on the couch. Brock sits beside him. Elias turns to face him. His expression is solemn. 

“What you need to understand,” Elias says, “is that my people were humans, too, but a very long time ago. The first of us to be like _ this _ were cursed by a, um.” He says a word Brock doesn’t recognize. 

“Wait,” Brock says. “Cursed? Like, with _ magic?” _

“Brock,” Elias says patiently, “I have been watching humans on TV for ten days. I can tell you that people like me are far from common in your lives, so what is so hard to accept about magic?” It’s a good point. Elias continues. “She made the first of us into this, but the curse also affects all their descendants. Forever.” 

“How could someone _ do _ this?” Brock asks.

“We’ve had a long time to think about what our ancestors did,” Elias says, a wry twist to his mouth. “They were not—they weren’t good people.” He shrugs. “You might know of them. People from lands in the north, great seafarers, but raiders, too. Warrior people.”

“Vikings?” Brock says, everything clicking into place. “Ships with monsters carved on the front, stuff like that, right?”

“Yes,” Elias says, nodding. “Besides, it’s not so bad. She didn’t want to be a killer, I guess, but she didn’t want my ancestors to hurt anyone else.” Elias sets his jaw. “What she _ did _ do was create something new and very rare. That’s why I was taken.” And Elias tells him what happened. 

Elias, his family, and all the rest of the descendants live in a northern sea. Elias doesn’t know the modern human name for it, but he explains how they judge the years by the seasons, moving deeper underwater in winter months. In the summer, when it’s warmer, they follow the fish to shallower waters. In recent generations, though, there have been fewer fish to go around, and more humans. Elias doesn’t know how some humans found out about them, but obviously they did. Enough to gather a proper hunting expedition, at least. 

“They never caught anyone,” Elias says. “They could have, I think, but they weren’t hunting like they wanted to kill us.” 

“Poachers,” Brock says grimly. “They wanted to profit off of you.” Elias nods. 

Elias tells him how his brother had been caught in a net while they’d been hunting. Elias had been able to free him, but in the process had been caught himself. He’d been dragged aboard a metal boat by men who spoke a language he didn’t yet understand.

“Humans like you have forgotten your magic,” Elias says. “We can’t forget where we came from, so.” He shrugs again. “We always remember.” 

Elias had tried to fight, his spines keeping anyone from tackling him and lashing out with his sharp fins when someone got too close. His expression is one of grim satisfaction when he tells Brock how he’d clawed one of them across the face, almost taking his eye out. He had used his magic, trying to capsize the boat by twisting the currents beneath the ship, but the effort left him vulnerable. The poachers tangled him in nets, buying them time to bind him arms.

“I thought they were going to kill me,” he admits. “I mean—I knew they didn’t want to, but they just—” He presses his lips together. “They hit me for a long time,” he settles on. Brock’s eyes flick down to his ribs. Elias brings a hand up to touch his side. “This was later,” he says. “I was trapped on that ship long enough that the first injuries had time to heal.”

They’d kept him in what was essentially a fish tank, chained by his wrists and ankles and neck, unable to try his magic. He could always feel the sea, though, and they never moved him from his tank. He could tell they were travelling towards the setting sun for a very long time.

“They never cleaned the tank,” Elias says. He smiles, a little vicious. “I think they were afraid of me.” Brock can’t fathom being afraid of Elias, who he’s seen small and frightened and crying, or bright-eyed and content with one of Brock’s blankets draped over his spines. He figures that must be how it works with all sorts of _ new _ things: some people hate them, and some people, well.

Don’t. 

The tank had started to grow a layer of green algae, filmy and disgusting, making it harder for Elias to breathe. They’d winched him out of the tank by his chains so he could breathe cleaner air through his lungs, and they assumed he could neither understand their language or the significance of their words. Which, of course, they were right about. 

At first. 

“That’s the thing about living underwater,” Elias explains. “Speaking like this, you know, it’s almost impossible. We still have a spoken language, but it’s nothing that modern people would understand. Sort of from what the ancestors spoke, but it’s been so long that it’s almost completely different.” 

Brock thinks back to his old high school English classes and his teacher explaining in a tired voice that _ no, _ Shakespeare isn’t Old English, none of you would be able to _ understand _ Old English, but then somebody had interrupted with a joke how they couldn’t understand whatever Shakespeare was saying anyway, and it had all derailed from there. 

“So you have a special underwater language?” Brock asks. He’s not sure how speaking underwater helped Elias learn how to speak English. 

“Kind of,” Elias says. He frowns. “You know, um.” He makes a diving motion with his hand, then makes a chirping noise. “Gray?”

“Dolphins?” Brock guesses. “Kind of look like big fish, but—”

“Not,” Elias finishes. “Yes, them. They have a language of sounds, noises each with special meaning. Hard to tell the difference if you aren’t familiar.” 

Elias tells him how his people communicate with what’s basically a more complex version of the dolphin language. 

“Picking up differences and meaning in sound—we are very good at it. We have to be, all our lives.” Brock’s pretty sure he can guess where this is going. “Human languages are easy to learn. The differences in sound are not so, uh, subtle, you know? So, a few weeks of listening to humans speak, and,” Elias shrugs, “I can understand what they are saying.”

The poachers had plans to take him somewhere, to some meeting place. Apparently, someone would have been waiting there for him. They’d never gotten that far. 

Elias had taken advantage of his disgusting tank to fake an illness, acting unresponsive and sickly. 

“A couple more days in there, I doubt it would’ve been an act,” Elias says, nose wrinkling.

Eventually, the poachers had been concerned enough that they’d taken him out of the tank, and they’d been foolish enough to unchain him while they poked and prodded at his gills in confusion. Elias had waited until their backs were turned, then he’d made a run for it. 

“Most of them didn’t react quickly enough to chase me,” Elias says, “but one of them must have known, because he was waiting outside.”

The guy had taken a swing at Elias with an oar. It had cracked off his ribs hard enough to slow him, but outside with the sea in all directions he was able to harness some of his power and raise a mist almost thick enough to touch before diving off the side of the ship and sinking to the bottom.

“I think they thought I’d swim off right away,” Elias says, “and that’s what I thought they’d think, so I just stayed at the bottom for a while before they went back the way they’d come. They probably thought I’d try to make for home, but I didn’t want to lead them back and I wasn’t sure I could find it anyway.”

So Elias had swum the other direction, slowed by his injuries. The water wasn’t as salty anymore, and he’d encountered a pod of whales. Since whales communicate similarly to dolphins, Elias had tried his best to ask where he was. 

_ River, _ they told him. _ Sunrise ocean, sunset no-salt seas. _

Elias went west.

His magic let him twist the currents, bend them to his advantage, so he was able to cross the distance in a much shorter time than anything less than a plane, probably. Still, he’d hardly stopped to rest, much less hunt, and he was starving, exhausted and lost by the time he made it to the westernmost of the saltless seas. Trying to surface to find his bearings had led to being whipped in the face with brutal winds and crashing waves, and even when closing his extra eyelid it had been hard to see.

Light, though, he could see. He swam for it.

Climbing onto the breakwater, and from there climbing the ladder, had been a feat in and of itself, especially when the amount of time Elias had been to the surface before his capture can be counted on one webbed hand.

“You know the rest, of course,” Elias says.

Brock doesn’t even know how to start. What he’s been told—it’s like everything he thought he knew about the world is wrong. He runs a hand through his hair, releasing a shaky breath. When he looks at Elias, his expression is a little fragile, like he’s not sure if Brock’s going to freak out. Brock reaches out and covers one of Elias’s hands with his own, giving it a careful squeeze.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” Brock says. Elias nods, an almost imperceptible movement. “I’m happy it wasn’t worse for you, though.” Thoughts of Elias being sold off to the highest bidder as little more than an exotic fish rise in his mind, or what could’ve happened if it hadn’t been Brock in the lighthouse. Just thinking about it makes him feel sick.

“Yes,” Elias agrees. “It could’ve been much worse.” Elias turns his hand over so they’re palm to palm and squeezes Brock’s hand. “This isn’t so bad.” He smiles shyly. 

Brock’s heart starts beating faster, and—

There’s a knock at the door.

Elias flinches back into the cushions, eyes wide in fear.

“Brock!” someone yells. “I know you’re in there, man, come on!”

“Get your fishing rod, bro,” someone else calls.

“Oh, fuck,” Brock groans. He rubs his jaw. “Those are my friends, I should—“ Elias relaxes a bit when Brock says he knows the people at the door, but he still looks worried. “I’ll bring you back a fish, okay?” Brock grins at him before he stands up to get his fishing gear. He wonders absently if Elias is feeling alright.

He’s looking a little flushed, is all. 

* * *

Brock is able to keep the guys from getting into the house by throwing a bunch of stuff at them and having them carry it to Bo’s truck.

“Where have you been, dude?” Troy asks, once they’re all settled in the boat. “I know you said you had a cold, but come on. I saw you at the museum the day before yesterday and you looked fine."

“Just a little under the weather, that’s all. I didn’t want you guys to get sick too, you know?” Brock shrugs. He takes a deep breath, breathing in of the crisp smell of the wind and the water. The guys mutter a bit, but Brock ignores them in favor of driving the boat. 

They stop at their favorite fishing spot, a secluded little bay with a forested shoreline. The sun is hot for late August, so Brock jumps off the boat a couple times with Troy and Jake while Bo yells at them to stop scaring the fish. 

Laughing with his friends under the bright summer sky, Brock can’t forget everything Elias told him. He thinks about Elias sitting on his couch, curled into himself and staring out the window towards the water. 

He wishes, startling in the intensity of the thought, that Elias were with him. 

He ducks underwater to clear his head before swimming back to the boat. 

He promised to catch Elias a fish, after all. 

* * *

Brock gets home with a few respectably sized fish wrapped in newspaper and a promise to his friends to join them for drinks later in the week. 

Opening the door, Brock hears Elias’s voice from the living room. He doesn’t sound alarmed or stressed, so Brock puts his fish in the kitchen before going to check out what he’s up to. 

Elias is lying on his stomach on the couch, one knee bent and his foot aimlessly swaying back and forth. Coolie is lying on the floor beside the couch, one of Elias’s hands in his fur. His tail is wagging slowly. Brock grins. Getting Elias to like Coolie hadn’t been _ that _ hard in the end. They just got off on the wrong foot, that’s all. 

Elias hasn’t seen Brock yet, though, and he’s still talking to the dog.

“—so it’s not like I should start acting like it, right? I don’t know what to do about this, because what if,” Elias pauses to sigh thoughtfully, “what if I want it t—”

“Hey guys,” Brock says, a little too loud. He doesn’t know what Elias was talking about, but it sounds like something private. Why else would he be venting about it to _ Coolie? _

Coolie pads over to lick Brock’s hands in greeting, tail wagging vigorously. Elias is sitting up when Brock looks over again.

“Brock,” Elias says, awkward. “How, um. How long were you there?”

“Not long,” Brock replies, keeping his voice bright. “Fish are on the counter, by the way. Pick one for today and I can freeze the rest.” 

Brock watches, entranced, as a delicate pink flush rises on Elias’s skin. Not just his face, but all the way down his chest. Brock tears his eyes away, clearing his throat. 

“Thank you,” Elias says softly.

“Any time,” Brock says. “I’m, uh. Going to shower.”

He keeps the water cold. 

* * *

After that day, Brock decides to be more careful until Elias is fully healed. He makes sure to hang out with his friends more often and keeps preparing the lighthouse for winter. He also makes sure to give Elias some space. 

Brock recognizes that he may have been a bit… overbearing. He doesn’t want Elias to feel smothered, so he lets him do his own thing when they’re both home.

That lasts until Elias is basically completely healed.

Brock gets home from work to find Elias on the couch with his arms crossed, frowning.

“I,” Elias says crisply, “am going to lose my mind if I have to be stuck in here for one more day.”

“Um,” Brock says. 

“You have a boat,” Elias says. “Take me somewhere quiet so I can _ swim.” _

Brock hesitates. In that moment of hesitation, Elias’s shoulders slump like he already knows that Brock is going to say no.

“Okay,” Brock says. “But you have to wear a shirt.” He grins as Elias’s expression brightens. “Go on,” Brock says, tilting his head towards his room, “we don’t have _ that _ much daylight left.” Elias hurries to get dressed. 

Considering this is the first time Elias has been outside beyond Brock’s backyard in almost a month, he seems remarkably relaxed. He doesn’t seem freaked out by the car, but then, Brock thinks, he’s been doing a _ lot _ of reading and TV-watching.

The marina’s pretty quiet, only a group of old guys getting their boat set up. Brock waits in the car until they leave, then he leads Elias to his boat. Brock buckles on his life jacket, Elias giving him a weird look.

“If you fall overboard, I’ll save you,” he says, raising one pale eyebrow.

“If I fall overboard and I’m knocked out, I can’t breathe,” Brock counters. Elias gives him a look like that fact is disappointing. Brock shrugs and starts the boat.

The farther they get from shore, the better Elias looks. He seems lighter, like there was something weighing him down before. His back is straighter, his eyes brighter. He’s tugging off the hoodie as soon as Brock slows down. They’ve come to the quiet bay where Brock and his friends go to fish. The setting sun turns the water into sparkling gold.

Brock shuts the boat off and lets it drift, turning expectantly to Elias. He looks just in time to see Elias dive off the side of the boat, cutting through the surface of the water with hardly a ripple. Brock laughs delightedly at the sight. Elias’s head pops out of the water a few yards away. He’s smiling, brighter than Brock’s ever seen. Brock can’t _ not _ grin back. 

Then Elias tilts his head at him in a challenging sort of way, his eyes flicking between Brock and the water. 

“Well?” Elias says, his voice cool but laughter dancing in his eyes.

Well.

Brock doesn’t bother trying to enter the water with a dive like Elias, knowing he’d just embarrass himself. Instead, he gauges the distance from the boat to where Elias is floating, takes a few running steps and launches himself into the air, hitting the water in an impressive cannonball.

When he surfaces with a gasp, Elias frowns at him. He sniffs disdainfully and disappears under the water. Brock laughs.

“You’re just jealous that my dive was better than yours,” Brock tells him matter-of-factly when Elias surfaces, closer than before.

Elias splashes him in the face before diving, leaving Brock to splutter in mock outrage.

It feels like they spend hours in the water, Brock chasing Elias around fruitlessly while Elias swims circles around him. By the time Brock heaves himself back onto the boat, out of breath, the sun is almost set.

Brock props himself up on his elbows while Elias swims around for a few more minutes. He comes aboard in a smooth motion that Brock really can only describe as a _ slither, _a fish in one hand and something small in the other. Brock can’t tell what it is, Elias’s fist clenched tight around it before he tucks the object into the pocket of the sweats Brock loaned him for the trip.

Elias holds the fish out to him. He’s not quite making eye contact, and he looks a little embarrassed.

“I caught it for you,” he mumbles. Brock takes the fish from him, still studying his face.

“Thanks,” he says, not sure if that’s the right answer. Elias doesn’t look _ dis_pleased by the answer, so Brock figures he can’t have done too poorly.

Elias slouches into his seat, biting absently at a fingernail. Brock watches him for a moment, then he starts the boat and takes them home. 

* * *

Brock makes the fish for supper, cooking half of it for himself and letting Elias eat the rest. He can feel Elias watching him while he eats it, and occasionally he catches him looking. And Brock—okay. 

Brock’s not, like, an _ expert _ on fishpeople behaviour. But after weeks of spending so much time with Elias, he considers himself something of an expert on _ Elias _ behaviour. And the way that he’s acting now—to say it’s unusual would be an understatement.

Also, as much as Elias looks and acts _ fishy _ sometimes, he _ is _ still a person. So.

An interesting picture is forming in Brock’s mind.

So, Brock’s pretty sure that Elias has a crush on him. He doesn’t do anything about it, though. After all, when he’s been the only source of interaction for Elias beyond a dog for weeks on end, it _ could _ just be the fact that Elias doesn’t have any other options. Brock stops catching fish for Elias, trying to ignore the disappointment on his face whenever Brock brings fish home and doesn’t explicitly offer them to him. 

That doesn’t stop Elias from catching _ him _ fish, though. As summer slips away into fall, Brock keeps taking Elias out on the lake so he can go swimming. Brock watches from the boat instead of joining him in the water now. The air is getting too cold for that.

One day, early enough that most people are still asleep, Brock takes him out to the lighthouse.

Brock sits on the breakwater, rolling up his jeans and letting his feet dangle into the water. He leans back on his hands and tips his head back to look up at the brightening sky. They won’t be able to stay too much longer. Brock looks back down and studies the shoreline. The deep greens of the pines are interspersed with the fiery oranges and yellows of the other, leafy trees. Elias had been amazed to learn that trees change color in the fall.

Looking back at the water, Brock can’t tell where Elias is at all. For a second, he imagines Elias swimming off on his own across the Atlantic to his home, all alone. Brock bites the inside of his cheek. The thought _ hurts, _ even though he knows Elias wouldn’t do that, wouldn’t leave without warning. 

As if on cue, Elias surfaces a few feet away. He looks at Brock strangely, like there’s something unfamiliar in his expression.

“We should probably head back in a minute,” Brock says. Not just to avoid other people seeing Elias, but it’s the first of October now, which means Brock’s done with the lighthouse and the museum for the summer. Now he has to start his other job down at the skating rink until spring.

“Is something wrong?” Elias asks unexpectedly. He swims closer, until he can look up at Brock from the water.

“No,” Brock says, offering a quick smile. “Just thinking.”

Tilting his head curiously, Elias climbs smoothly out of the water to sit next to Brock, wrapping a towel around his shoulders.

“About what?” Elias asks. He’s looking at Brock expectantly, and the light of the rising sun casts a silver light on his skin. Brock tracks the path of a drop of water trailing down his throat, his mouth suddenly dry.

“You,” Brock blurts, unthinking. 

“Oh,” Elias says, barely a whisper. He tugs the towel tighter around himself as a pink flush rises to his cheeks.

“Um,” Brock says, “sorry, that was—I shouldn’t have—” His embarrassed rambling is cut off as something brushes against the back of his hand. He looks down to see that Elias has reached out to touch his hand, uncertainty in every line of his body. Brock takes a deep breath and turns his hand so they’re palm to palm. He waits, breathing shallow, for Elias to make the next move. 

Elias takes his hand in a firm grip, still looking at their joined hands instead of Brock’s face. Brock squeezes back reassuringly.

“I—”

“Are you sure about this?” Brock asks just as Elias starts to speak, cutting him off accidentally. He laughs nervously. “Sorry, sorry,” he says.

“Yes,” Elias says firmly. His uncertainty has disappeared and he looks much more sure of himself. 

Brock can’t say he’s surprised when Elias leans forward and kisses him. 

It is, objectively, not a very _ good _ kiss. It’s fairly obvious Elias has never done it before, his mouth closed and stiff on Brock’s. Brock gently takes Elias’s face in his hands, stroking his thumbs across his cheekbones. 

“Here,” he murmurs against Elias’s lips, tilting his head just slightly, coaxing Elias to relax into the kiss. He tries to suppress his smile at the surprised sound Elias makes as his hands fly up to Brock’s shoulders.

Elias tastes like the sea. 

Brock finally draws back, running a thumb over Elias’s lower lip. Elias looks like Brock feels; which is to say, dazed. 

“Okay,” Brock says. His voice is hoarse and he has to clear his throat before trying to talk again. “Okay, we should. We should definitely go now.” 

“Yeah,” Elias says. 

Neither of them move, Brock distracted by Elias’s light blue eyes, his pale blond hair that looks gold in the first rays of sunlight.

“Yeah,” Brock echoes. 

The two of them stare at each other for a long moment, then the gong of the church bell sounds from town. Six times. Six o’clock.

That spurs Brock into motion, finally, and he stands up. He’s a little stiff from sitting on the cold stone of the breakwater for so long, but when Elias pulls himself up with the help of Brock’s outstretched hand, he feels warm all the way from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. 

Elias has to let go to pull on his clothes, but as soon as he’s dressed, he reaches out again. Brock grins and takes his hand. 

* * *

Their routine doesn’t change that much during October, Brock splitting his time between work, his friends and Elias as best he can, only now _ Elias _ also means _ kissing. _ He starts fishing for Elias again when he explains haltingly how it’s used as a _ courting gesture. _

“Consider yourself courted,” Brock says, setting a fish in front of Elias with an extravagant bow one night. 

“Brock,” Elias says, voice mild, “I was with you when you caught it. Why are you making such a show out of this.” His voice is flat, but he’s blushing. Brock chalks up another win on his mental scoreboard creatively named _ Times I’ve Made Elias Blush. _

“You deserve it,” Brock says, and swoops in to kiss Elias’s scrunched-up nose. His face is even redder when Brock steps back.

“I hate you,” Elias mumbles. “I don’t want your stupid fish anymore.” Brock runs a hand through Elias’s hair, then down to press at the back of his neck. “You’re the worst,” Elias tries, unconvincingly. Brock strokes down his spines, grinning smugly as Elias relaxes under the touch. “Only hate you a little bit,” Elias decides before taking a bite of his fish.

Laughing, Brock steps away from the table to check on the eggs he’s making. His phone, lying on the counter beside the stove, lights up with a text. It’s from Troy. 

_ u comin 2 halloween at caps _

It’s phrased like a question, but it feels more like an order. Which is frankly a little insulting—Brock hasn’t missed one of Bo’s Halloween parties since Bo started hosting them.

_ obviously, _he answers. He dumps the eggs onto his plate, collects the toast from the toaster, and sits at the table across from Elias. He reaches out to hook their ankles together under the table. Elias ignores him, chewing on his fish, but he presses his foot against Brock’s. 

“So,” Brock starts. Elias looks up at him, raising an eyebrow. Brock frowns, unsure where to start. “Do you know what Halloween is yet?” Elias has a look like he’s trying to remember something he thinks he should know.

“Is that with the, uh,” he makes a face, “costumes?”

“Yes!” Brock says, pleased that there’s one explanation he doesn’t need to make. “Every year, my friend has a party for it. and we all dress up and get drunk and stuff.” Elias’s eyebrows climb higher with every word. “That’s this Friday,” Brock informs him.

“Okay,” Elias says slowly. He narrows his eyes. “Don’t get too drunk.”

“No, but.” Brock rubs his jaw nervously. “I was thinking—you could come.”

“I—People would see me,” Elias says. His face is pale. He tugs his foot away from Brock, his shoulders a taut line. “I can’t.”

“But that’s just it,” Brock says. He reaches out and takes Elias’s hand, rubbing gentle circles on his knuckles until he relaxes a little. “You’d wear a costume. Nobody would be able to see what you look like.” Elias doesn’t look convinced. “Look,” Brock says gently, “you don’t have to come if you really don’t want to, but don’t you think it’d be fun? You could meet some other humans besides me for once.” Brock bites his lip. “And if you really hate it,” he adds, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, “Bo has a place on the water. You can wait for me at the lighthouse.”

A beat. Two.

“Alright,” Elias says, but before Brock does something embarrassing like fistpump, Elias raises a hand. “On one condition.” Brock leans forward to hear it. Elias smirks. “I pick my own costume."

Brock is too busy celebrating his victory to feel insulted.

* * *

Brock shows Elias the town’s costume store’s selection on his computer. It’s too late to get something online, but the shop has a pretty good selection. 

“Wait,” Elias says while Brock scrolls through the photos. He pauses. “Go back?” Brock scrolls back up slowly, curious about what caught Elias’s attention. “What about that one?” Elias asks. He touches the screen.

The picture is a woman wearing what Brock assumes is a Victorian dress, high-collared and relatively ornate for a small town costume shop, including a floppy-brimmed hat. Considering that it isn’t one of the “sexy” costumes, the conservative design would easily cover his fins and gills. The hat, plus his hair that _ really _ needs a cut, could cover his ears. Only—

“You sure you want a woman’s costume?” Brock asks, studying Elias’s face. Elias wrinkles his nose.

“What do you mean?” he asks in return.

“Like, a dress,” Brock explains.

Elias wordlessly points to the costume of the Roman Emperor.

“Huh,” Brock says. He hadn’t thought about it like that before. “Good point.” 

* * *

Brock stops by the store to get their costumes two days before the party. For himself, he gets a cowboy costume. A little unoriginal, maybe, but Brock has bigger things to worry about this year than his Halloween costume.

Elias is reading on the couch when he gets home, but he comes over to see what Brock has brought with him. He reaches out to touch the package.

“Is this—?” He looks hesitantly at Brock.

“Yep,” Brock says, smiling. “Go ahead, try it on.” Brock hands him the package and Elias disappears to the bathroom. Brock goes to put his own costume in his room while he changes.

“What do you think?” Elias asks from his doorway. Brock jumps, startled, and turns around.

Elias looks—well. He looks _ great, _ but Brock might be a little biased since he always thinks Elias looks great. As far as the whole _ wearing clothes _ thing goes, Elias has come a long way in the last couple months, and he looks comfortable even in a dress practically designed to be _ un_comfortable. 

Brock goes to him to adjust his collar a little bit, smooth down a few wrinkles, and straightens his hat.

“You look perfect,” Brock tells him. Elias blushes bright red. Brock kind of wants to gather him close and hold him forever, even though that’s kind of stupid. _ Hey, _ Brock reasons, _ love makes you stupid. _

Wait.

_ What? _

As Brock has a tiny, hopefully unnoticeable freak-out, Elias takes off his hat, his hair falling back into his eyes. The part of Brock’s mind that’s _ not _ panicking, the part that’s probably known for a while that he’s in love with Elias, thinks, _ I should give him a haircut soon. _

The rest of Brock’s mind answers, _ That’s what you’re worried about right now?! _

“You need a haircut,” Brock says out loud, thankfully not something ridiculous like _ I love you. _He reaches out and pushes his fingers into his hair. It just reaches his shoulders now.

“After Halloween?” Elias suggests. “It covers my ears better like this.” Brock nods agreeably, still playing with his hair. He tucks a piece of it behind Elias’s ear, then runs a finger along the pointed edge. Elias shivers.

“Yeah,” Brock says distractedly. His hand moves from Elias’s ear down to his neck, still covered by the dress’s collar. Elias looks at him assessingly, his face pink, and seems to make a decision.

“Can you, um.” Elias bites his lip. Brock stares at his mouth, pressing a thumb against Elias’s jaw. “Can you help me out of this, please?” His voice is so soft.

Logically, Brock knows Elias doesn’t really need his help to take the dress off—he put it _ on _ by himself, obviously. But he also has a pretty good idea why Elias asked, so he nods. Elias turns so Brock can access the zipper.

Slowly, careful not to catch on any spines, Brock unzips the dress. The zipper ends at the waist, so Brock moves from there to Elias’s shoulders. He pushes the sleeves down his arms, letting Elias tug them off completely. Once the sleeves are off and there’s nothing else to hold up the dress, it falls to the floor at Elias’s feet.

He’s not wearing anything else underneath. 

Brock has seen Elias naked, like, a lot. Elias being naked when they first met seemingly set the tone for Elias and his relationship with clothing. Still, this feels more significant.

Elias turns back to face him, trembling a little, and when Brock reaches out for him, Elias steps into his arms. Brock takes the back of Elias’s neck in his hand, pressing just slightly against his spines, and pulls him down to kiss him. 

They’ve done a lot of kissing since that first one at the lighthouse, and Brock likes to think they’ve both gotten much better at it.

Elias’s knees almost buckle when Brock runs his hand down his spines. 

“Whoa,” Brock mumbles, still mostly against Elias’s mouth. “Want to take this somewhere more comfortable?”

Brock is expecting Elias to head for the bed just behind Brock, but instead, Elias takes his hand and leads him down the hall to the bathroom.

Brock is a _ little _ surprised to see the bathtub already almost full. He turns to Elias, eyebrows raised.

“Did you plan this?” he asks, still smiling. Elias looks a little embarrassed.

“I hoped,” Elias says. He leaves it at that. Brock strips off his hoodie and shirt in one movement, unbuckling his belt and kicking off his jeans before taking off his socks.

Brock makes sure to close the door. They don’t need Coolie interrupting right now.

Elias slides into the bathtub, leaning back against the reclining surface and closing his eyes. He opens one eye a moment later to look at Brock.

“Why aren’t you moving,” he asks. Brock tears his eyes away from the water and back to Elias’s face. 

“Sorry,” Brock says, voice unsteady, “you’re really distracting.”

“Hmph,” Elias says, and he ducks his head underwater to hide his smile.

Brock climbs into the bathtub much more ungracefully than Elias, water sloshing out and onto the floor.

Elias surfaces again, looking up at Brock with wide eyes.

“Hey,” Brock murmurs, cupping Elias’s cheek. “Have you ever done this before?” 

“No,” Elias whispers, and he looks a little scared. “I, um. I researched, while you were gone.” 

Brock feels a little unsteady, breathless at the idea of Elias _ planning _ for this. He knows that Elias can see that on his face at the way he blushes. 

“Shut up,” Elias says, but his voice is shaky and unconvincing. 

“Well,” Brock says, “I’ve never done it in a bathtub before.” Elias snorts despite himself. Brock grins. “First time for everything.”

Elias gets a hand in Brock’s hair and pulls him down. 

The bathtub is big, plenty of space for Elias when he’s alone, but two of them is pushing it a bit. Elias has thrown one leg over the edge of the tub, his other leg drawn up carefully around Brock’s waist in a way that keeps the fin on his calf from jabbing at him uncomfortably.

Brock’s knees are probably going to be sore after this, but he can’t bring himself to worry about that when he has Elias underneath him, kissing him.

He shifts, holding himself up by his elbows on either side of Elias’s head so they’re chest to chest. Letting his teeth catch gently in Elias’s lower lip, he finally pulls back to catch his breath. He can feel his heart beating everywhere.

_ I love you, _Brock thinks wonderingly, looking down at Elias’s wide blue eyes, his mussed hair, his flushed cheeks. From the corner of his eyes, he can see the blue fins on Elias’s forearms, a sharp contrast against his pale skin.

Brock doesn’t know when it happened; when he stopped seeing the fins and scales and seeing them as _ Other, _ and when he started seeing them as _ Elias. _He turns his head and presses his lips to the scales at the base of the fin, then repeats the gesture on the other side.

Elias’s hands tighten in his hair. 

“I—” Elias starts, his voice cutting off as Brock presses a kiss, featherlight, onto his throat. Just above one of his gills. “Brock, I—You—” His voice is unsteady.

“Mm,” Brock hums from somewhere around Elias’s collarbones.

“Wait,” Elias says, and he presses a gentle hand to Brock’s chest. Brock sits back. He doesn’t feel concerned, because Elias, for all his wide-eyed blushing, is still relaxed against the side of the tub, his mouth curved into a smile. “Just let me—” Elias sits up, slowly so Brock can move out of his way as much as possible, then he leans over the side of the tub and picks something off the floor. 

He settles back down, taking Brock’s hand and putting the object into it, then closes his hand around it. His expression is weirdly determined, though he’s still bright red.

Brock opens his hand and looks down at what Elias gave him. 

“Like I said,” Elias says, “I did research.”

“I can’t believe you,” Brock says, because what _ else _ can he say? Research is one thing; figuring out how online shopping works so he could buy _ waterproof lube _ is something altogether different. _ I love you, _Brock thinks again, but this time in a voice full of affection.

“I wanted, um.” Elias stares over Brock’s shoulder at the ceiling. “I want.” Brock cups his cheek with his free hand, stroking his thumb against Elias’s cheekbone before pressing it gently against his lower lip. Elias nips at his thumb, his tongue darting out to trace the mark his teeth left. 

“Fuck,” Brock says, his voice cracking embarrassingly. He has to press his forehead to Elias’s shoulder to compose himself. When he leans back, Elias has that intense look he gets sometimes, sharp-eyed and fierce. Brock’s not really used to thinking of it as _ hot, _but. First time for everything. “What do you want?” Brock asks, because even though he’s got a pretty good idea, he wants Elias to say it.

Elias doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, he pulls Brock closer with the leg he’s got around his waist. He gets one hand on Brock’s back and pushes down until Brock is pretty much plastered against every inch of him. Brock presses his mouth against the skin he can reach, the juncture between Elias’s neck and his shoulder. 

He scrapes his teeth over it. 

Elias jerks under him, sending more water sloshing onto the floor.

“You know,” Elias whispers, “you _ know _ what I want.”

He does. 

Brock knows Elias has never done this, and considering the webs between his fingers, probably hasn’t done _ anything _ like it before. So. He goes slow.

Too slow, maybe, based on the way Elias slaps his chest and says, “get on with it,” but Brock doesn’t rush. He wants to make it good for Elias. Plus, the hitch in Elias’s breathing when Brock finally slides a finger into him doesn’t go unnoticed.

_ I love you, _Brock thinks, staring at where his hand disappears under the warm water, the way Elias is shaking, the quiet sounds he doesn’t manage to muffle.

Brock doesn’t add a second finger until Elias is working his hips down against the first one, his face twisted like it feels good but not _ enough. _ He lets out a shuddery sort of whimper when Brock pushes the second one in. Brock presses a kiss to his cheek, another to his forehead, to the tip of his nose, and finally to his lips. 

He kisses Elias until he can add a third finger. Elias responds to it with a soft sigh, his whole body going limp and relaxed. 

Brock figures—If Elias’s biology in this particular part of his body is human, then maybe... He curls his fingers and Elias arches his back with a gasp, his eyes going wide. Brock grins. _ Found it. _

Brock is _ almost _ tempted to work him with his fingers, just to see if he could come from that—Brock has a feeling he could. Almost.

Elias told him what he wants, and Brock isn’t going to deny him.

Also, the fact that his own dick is achingly hard makes him want to get on with it.

Besides, they’ll have plenty of time for experimenting later.

Elias makes a displeased face when Brock slides his fingers out. Brock uses his free hand to stroke the skin of Elias’s inner thigh while his other hand is busy with the lube. He has to grit his teeth against the feeling of his hand on his dick, counting back from five so he doesn’t come on the spot. He hadn’t realized how much fingering Elias had gotten to him, but obviously it was_ a lot. _

Brock carefully presses into Elias, going as slow as he can. Elias presses his lips together, his head dropping back as his chest heaves.

“Fuck,” Brock says articulately. “Fuck, fuck, you’re so—” Brock cuts himself off so he can kiss Elias, messy and uncoordinated. He rolls his hips once, still so slowly, and he’s all the way inside.

Elias makes a high-pitched noise, shifting against Brock. His hands slip against Brock’s back, nails catching against his skin. Brock curls one hand around the back of Elias’s head so he doesn’t hurt himself against the porcelain, his other hand wrapping around the edge of the tub. 

“Brock,” Elias says. His eyelids flutter shut, his mouth open to suck in short breaths. “Brock,” he says again. “Something. Please.”

Brock digs his fingers into the edge of the tub, reminding himself that he wanted to go slow. He dips down to kiss Elias again. It isn’t a very _ good _ kiss, just a messy press of mouths. As soon as Brock has himself back under control and Elias’s breathing has evened out, Brock moves.

Elias shudders at the feeling as Brock shifts against him, sliding almost all the way out before pressing back in. They make a rhythm together, Elias rocking his hips back into every thrust until his breathing is ragged and he can’t stop himself from making these _ noises. _

Brock lets go of Elias’s head, trailing the hand down his chest until he can wrap it around Elias’s dick. Elias makes a shocked sound, his eyes going wide as he looks up at Brock. He gets a hand in Brock’s hair and pulls him down to kiss him desperately.

_ I love you, _ Brock thinks, working his hand faster. _ I love you, I love you, I— _

Elias bites Brock’s lip when he comes.

The feeling of Elias tensing before going boneless encourages Brock to speed up a little, and it’s not long before he’s pushing his face into Elias’s neck and muffling his groan when he comes. 

They lie there, catching their breath, for a long moment. 

“The water’s gross now,” Elias says, his voice raw.

“Mmph,” Brock agrees. “Should shower.”

“Yes,” Elias says, but neither of them move.

Eventually, Brock manages to get himself in order enough to pull out, Elias making a face at the strange feeling.

“Sorry,” Brock murmurs, pressing a kiss to Elias’s cheek.

Brock fumbles around underwater until he finds the plug, finally able to drain the bath. While Elias lies there in the cooling water, staring up at the ceiling with a dazed look on his face, Brock staggers out of the tub and carefully picks his way to the shower in the corner. He turns it on hot, then goes back to the tub to get Elias.

Elias holds a hand out before Brock’s even within arm’s reach. 

Brock helps him out of the tub and leads him carefully into the shower. The shower is not very big, leaving them pressed against each other, but the heat and steam and the fact that he, like, just came makes him sleepy. Under the guise of soaping up Elias’s skin, Brock runs his hands up and down his back, finishing by stroking his spines while Elias leans against him.

Eventually, Brock snaps out of the lull and washes his hair, mindful not to elbow Elias in the face while he does so. 

“Here,” Brock says, keeping his voice low. “Close your eyes.”

Obediently, Elias shuts his eyes, pale eyelashes trembling. Brock squeezes some shampoo into his hands, rubbing them together until he’s got a good lather, then he gets his hands in Elias’s hair. Careful not to pull too hard on any tangles, Brock runs his fingers through Elias’s soapy hair, massaging his scalp gently.

When Brock leans back a bit, he notices Elias has his eyes open. Or—not quite. His clear eyelid is still shut, keeping suds out of his eyes, but he’s looking straight at Brock. 

Brock almost says it.

Instead, he presses Elias back until he steps under the water, rinsing off all the shampoo. Brock runs his fingers through his hair, ostensibly to help get the suds out, but it’s really just an excuse to touch him.

Next, Brock gets a bit of conditioner into Elias’s hair. Elias steps into the stream of water without Brock’s prompting this time. Brock still helps him rinse.

They stand under the water until it starts to turn cold, arms wrapped around each other. 

Brock towels off quickly, then turns back to help Elias. Brock drops the towel on one of the puddles they made earlier. He’ll clean it up later. 

Keeping an arm around Elias’s waist, he guides Elias back down the hallway to his bedroom. 

The dress is still in a heap on the floor, so Brock picks it up, dusts it off and hangs it in the closet. Meanwhile, Elias flops face-first into the sheets, mindful of his spines. Brock can see the way they move when he breathes.

Finished tidying up, Brock climbs into bed next to him, stretching out with a sigh. As soon as he’s settled, Elias curls into him, pushing his face into Brock’s shoulder. He rests his hand on Brock’s chest, a loose fist just over Brock’s heart. Brock can feel Elias’s heartbeat where his chest is pressed against Brock’s side, beating steadily. 

_ I love you. _

Brock presses his lips to Elias’s hair and closes his eyes. He falls asleep counting the beats of Elias’s heart.

* * *

Elias is nervous on Halloween, but still willing to go to the party. 

“I mean,” Elias says, “if I really am going to stay, I shouldn’t, uh, isolate myself. Right?” He looks to Brock nervously, like he’s not sure if his point makes sense. 

“Yeah,” Brock says encouragingly, “and my friends are cool. I trust them, and you can, too.” Elias takes his hand and squeezes it, a sure sign that he feels better.

They don’t have time to go out for a proper swim, so Elias makes do with the bathtub in the morning.

It’s only been a couple days, but Brock is almost certain he’ll never look at that bathtub the same way ever again.

They get dressed before they go, Elias tugging on a pair of black gloves to hide his hands. Brock opens the car door for Elias with a tip of his hat, grinning at Elias’s eye roll. 

There are already a number of cars outside Bo’s place by the time they get there; exactly as planned. Brock didn’t want to show up early and have Elias have to face his friends one on one.

“Brock!” Bo says cheerfully when he opens the door. He’s wearing a Superman costume, and he sure _ looks _ the part. He smiles like he’s getting ready to say something else, but then he notices Elias. “Uh, who’s your friend?”

“Elias. He’s not from around here,” Brock says. At Bo’s curious look, Brock adds, “Sweden. I’m showing him around. His English isn’t so good, though.”

“Well, any friend of Brock’s is a friend of mine,” Bo says, directing a smile at Elias. Elias smiles back hesitantly. Brock relaxes even though he hadn’t noticed he’d been tense. 

As soon as Bo is out of earshot, Elias frowns at Brock crossly. 

“My English is great,” Elias says. “Why did you tell him that?”

“Giving you an out if you need it,” Brock explains. “Less awkward questions, so it’ll be easier for us to stick to the same story.”

“Oh,” Elias says. He makes a face like it pains him to admit it, then says, “Good idea.”

Brock turns his face away to hide a smug smile.

The house is crowded, but not suffocatingly so. Elias still looks nervous, gripping Brock’s arm like he’s afraid of being left behind.

Brock says hello to people he knows, introducing Elias as his_ friend from Sweden. _A lot of the girls smile at Elias’s costume and tell him that he looks great. Some of the guys do a double take when they see him. Elias smiles shyly at the compliments.

By the time they reach the middle of the house, where Bo and the guys have taken over a couple of couches, both of them have had beers pressed into their hands.

“Brock!” Troy calls. Brock isn’t sure what he’s supposed to be. A zombie? Frankenstein’s monster? Brock gives up trying to figure it out and raises his bottle in acknowledgment, settling into the big armchair in the corner. He moves to make space for Elias to sit down beside him. It’s pretty cramped, but the couches are also full of people, so nobody looks weirded out. Except Bo. Well, Bo doesn’t look _ weirded out, _but he looks between Brock and Elias with a considering look on his face.

Brock takes a sip of his beer.

“So,” Jake says. He’s dressed as a skeleton, his black and white face paint starting to smudge. He props his feet up on the table and surveys the room. “Anyone going to the tournament next weekend?”

A few of the guys are already signed up, others aren’t as sure. 

“Brock? How about you?” Several people turn to look at him expectantly.

Brock shrugs, his arm pressing against Elias’s.

“I don’t know,” Brock admits. “I want to, but I don’t have a partner this year.” He shoots Troy a dirty look.

“It’s not _ my _ fault I have to go to the wedding,” Troy protests.

“See? No loyalty around here,” Brock says. He shakes his head in mock disappointment. 

“What about your friend? Elias? He any good at fishing?”

Elias coughs. Brock’s pretty sure he’s trying not to laugh.

“He’s alright,” Brock says with a straight face.

Elias coughs harder.

“You okay?” Brock asks mildly. He raises an eyebrow at Elias, lips twitching. Elias takes drink of beer, making a face at the taste, and scowls at him.

“Elias,” Troy says expansively. He throws out his arms, almost spilling his beer into a girl’s lap. “I nominate you to take my place as Brock’s partner in the fishing tournament.” 

“Hmm,” Elias says. “I will think about it.” He plays up his accent a little bit.

“Well, don’t blame me when we beat all of you,” Brock says, laughing.

A few of the guys object loudly before the room lapses back into comfortable conversations, Bo’s Halloween music underlying the sound of voices. Some shouting comes from the kitchen, where people usually go to do drinking games. Brock would normally get involved, but he has to drive tonight so he’s sticking with his one beer.

Elias, on the other hand, keeps getting drinks from a bunch of people. Considering he’s never had alcohol before, he seems to be doing okay, but his face is flushed and he’s moved from just being squished against Brock to snuggled into his side.

He takes another sip of his green drink through the straw, then frowns. 

“Brock,” Elias whispers. His face has gone pale. “I need, um.” Brock plucks the colorful drink out of his hands and sets it on the table, then stands up, pulling Elias along with him. He keeps an arm around Elias.

“Hey, is he okay?” Bo asks. 

“Just, uh, lightweight, you know,” Brock says. He pushes Elias into the bathroom and closes the door. Elias is sitting on the toilet seat, swaying back and forth slowly. He’s rubbing his hands over his sleeves.

“I don’t feel good,” Elias says.

“You’re drunk,” Brock says. “You’ll feel gross until tomorrow, but you’ll be okay."

“No,” Elias says miserably, “it’s not that.” Then he reaches over his shoulder and unzips the dress.

“Uh,” Brock says, “what—"

He stops, shocked. 

Elias’s scales, normally a deep, rich blue, are as pale as a robin’s egg. Brock reaches out and brushes his fingers over his spines. They feel almost like paper. 

“It’s the curse,” Elias says. “This is what happens if we try to stay out of the water too long. If I don’t do anything about it, then I dry up and die.”

Brock turns on the sink, the bathtub. While he waits for the tub to fill, Brock wets a hand towel and wraps it loosely around one of Elias’s forearms, covering the fin there. Brock looks frantically for a glass, something to fill with water to pour. Nothing.

“I’ll be right back, okay?” Brock says. “Just—wait in there.” Elias nods and slides into the shallow water of the bathtub. Brock touches his forehead on his way by. Even his skin feels dry.

Brock pushes aside a few drunk people in the kitchen, but it’s late enough that most of them are finished and heading out. He nudges a star-spangled wizard out of his way and finds Bo’s largest beer glass.

He almost runs back to the bathroom, narrowly avoiding a collision with a witch and a black cat—both in the _ sexy _ versions of the costumes—making out in the hallway.

He rounds the corner just in time to see Bo open the door of the bathroom.

Brock throws himself into the bathroom and slams the door, locking it. He keeps his back against it and stares at Bo. 

Bo hasn’t even looked up from where he’s staring at Elias. Elias looks at Bo, eyes wide in fright, then back to Brock.

“Bo,” Brock says, voice low, “you can’t tell anyone.” Bo finally looks at Brock, eyes a little wild. “You have to promise. Swear you won’t tell.” 

“I—"

“Promise me,” Brock says, letting his desperation slip into his voice. 

Bo looks closely at his face, then back at Elias. Elias looks terrified.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Bo says. “Nobody would believe me anyway.” Brock feels the tension leave his body, his grip loosening around the heavy glass.

“Then can you help?” Brock asks. “He’s not—he’s not well.”

The guys call Bo _ Cap _ for a reason, Brock thinks, as _ Bo _ disappears and _ Doctor Horvat _takes his place. 

Bo immediately takes charge of the situation, studying what parts of Elias’s body need water more urgently than others, instructing Brock on whether he should use the glass to pour, or wet more towels.

It doesn’t take long for Elias to start looking better, color returning to his cheeks and his fins feeling less brittle. Bo makes Elias stay in the water until everyone else has left, then helps Brock get him to the car. 

“He should stay in the water overnight,” Bo advises. “Even if he looks better now, he’s not all the way back to normal.” Brock nods, making sure Elias’s seatbelt is buckled before stepping back and closing the door. 

“Thank you for not freaking out,” Brock says.

“Oh, I am,” Bo says. “But, you know, patient comes first.” Bo looks at him curiously then. “Is this why you called me about the broken ribs back in August?”

“Yeah,” Brock says. “What was I supposed to do, take him to the hospital? Besides, I’d only known him for, like, a few hours.”

“Reasonable,” Bo agrees. He studies Brock’s face for a moment. “You and him—you’re not just friends, are you.” It’s not really a question, and Brock doesn’t bother denying it. He nods. “You love him, don’t you.” Again, he’s not asking.

“I do,” Brock says softly. “I do love him.” It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, and it makes it feel _ real. _Somehow, it’s less terrifying than he thought it would be.

“Well,” Bo says. He lets out an explosive breath, then pulls Brock into a hug. It’s a proper hug, not a bro hug, and Brock wraps his arms tightly around Bo. “Best of luck,” Bo says. He steps back, keeping his hands on Brock’s shoulders. “If you ever need anything—"

“Don’t worry,” Brock says. “You’ll be the first on my list to call.” Bo smiles and pats him firmly on the shoulders. 

“Be careful,” Bo says. 

Brock raises a hand for a two-fingered salute before he gets into the car.

He’s always careful. 

* * *

Elias doesnt seem _ pleased, _ exactly, that more people than just Brock know about him, but he seems almost relieved, even though Bo told him sternly that he wasn’t allowed to participate in the fishing tournament on account of him being part fish. 

“It gets tiring, all this secret-keeping, don’t you think?” Elias asks him one night. November has been cold so far, Brock lighting fires in the fireplace to warm the living room. They’ve been spending most evenings there, Brock lying on the couch with Elias curled on top of him.

“Yeah,” Brock says. _ Trust me, I know, _ he doesn’t say. “Sure can wear on you.” _ I love you, _he doesn’t say. 

“Mm,” Elias agrees. He burrows closer, Brock’s arms tightening around him.

Brock sometimes feels a little disappointed that Elias’s spines would hurt if he were to try spooning him, but then, he’s discovering all kinds of new and exciting ways to hold Elias and not get jabbed.

“Should put on hockey,” Elias says, muffled into Brock’s sweater.

Brock had turned on a game a couple weeks ago, just as some background noise, but Elias had been hooked immediately. Now he reads and watches pretty much everything he can about it. 

“You decided on a favorite team yet?” Brock asks.

“Vancouver,” Elias tells him without hesitation. “Best colours, best logo, best mascot. Plus, they’re from the ocean.” 

“Are killer whales really so great?” Brock asks. Fin is cute as far as mascots go, but Brock thinks it’s a little weird to have one of the world’s deadliest acquatic predators as a mascot.

Then again, SJ Sharkie exists. 

“Killer whales?” Elias says, outraged. “This is what you call them?” He mutters something unintelligible into Brock’s sweater, but Brock is pretty sure it wasn’t in English anyway. “Very rude,” he adds finally. He props himself up enough to frown sternly at Brock. Brock tries to look chastened, and Elias flops back onto his chest. 

“Sorry,” Brock says, trying to keep the smile out of his voice. Elias plucks the remote off the table and passes it to Brock. Brock finds the Canucks game, keeping the volume low. 

Elias sighs, pleased.

“Wish I could do that,” he murmurs to himself as the players skate up and down the ice. 

“I used to,” Brock tells him.

“Really?” Elias props himself up, blinking at him in surprise. “You never said.”

Brock shrugs as well as he can lying down. 

“It’s not really something I like to talk about,” Brock admits. “I got hurt when I was a teenager and I had to stop playing. I can still skate, but not as well as I used to. That’s why I work at the rink after summer.”

“I’m sorry,” Elias says. He presses a hand to Brock’s cheek and kisses him softly.

“It’s okay,” Brock says once they separate. “I’ve got a good life now.” He smiles. “Better with you, though.”

“Ugh,” Elias says, scowling at himself for blushing and pushing his face back into Brock’s sweater. 

“It’s true,” Brock says. He brings a hand to Elias’s hair, running his fingers through it. “Hey,” Brock says, remembering what he’d been thinking back on Halloween, “can I cut your hair?”

* * *

Cutting Elias’s hair is really not as hard as Brock had thought. He washes Elias’s hair, combing his fingers through it to make sure it’s all clean, then sits him down on a chair he’d brought into the bathroom. Brock gets out a proper comb and runs it carefully through Elias’s hair, making sure any knots or tangles are gone. 

Once Elias’s hair is neatly combed, plastered to the back of his neck, Brock gets out the scissors. He’s hardly a professional, but he’s got a pretty could idea on how to make Elias’s hair look good.

Or, at least, presentable.

“Here,” Brock says. He keeps his voice quiet. “Can you move—“ The light press of his fingers is all it takes for Elias to tilt his head where he needs to.

By the time Brock gets to the front, Elias shuts his eyes to keep tufts of his hair from falling into them. 

Brock eventually sets the scissors aside and uses an electric razor to tidy the edges. He runs his fingers through Elias’s hair, making sure it feels even, then takes him back to the shower. Elias rinses off stray hairs while Brock cleans up the bathroom floor.

Elias is taking an awfully long time just for a rinse, Brock decides, so he goes to make sure he’s okay. 

He can see Elias’s shape through the shower door, and he’s standing, at least. Brock opens the door. 

“What’s taking you so long?” Brock asks, smiling. The water feels nice and hot, even from outside. Just the way Elias likes it.

“I was waiting for you,” Elias says, and he reaches out to pull Brock under the spray. Laughing, Brock goes easily. 

He ignores the fact that his clothes are getting soaked. The things he does for love, he thinks absently, then Elias kisses him and he doesn’t think about much at all. 

* * *

Elias decides that he hates the cold once the temperature starts to plunge, the seasons turning towards winter. 

“I do _ not _ like it,” Elias says crossly. He’s frowning at the fireplace like he’s not impressed with its performance. He has three blankets draped over him and a mug of hot chocolate clasped in his hands.

“I thought you said you come from deep seas,” Brock says mildly. “Isn’t it cold there?” He finishes cleaning the dishes and starts wiping down the countertop.

“Duh,” says Elias.

Brock suddenly regrets showing Elias all those 90s movies. 

“We lived around a volcano,” Elias adds, and before Brock can freak out at the idea of Elias living near a _ volcano, _ Elias continues, “There is no record of it erupting since my ancestors found it, and the heat and minerals support a lot of life, even deep below the surface.”

“Still,” Brock mutters. He hangs the rag over the tap and washes his hands, then picks up his own mug and mixes himself a hot chocolate. 

Despite Elias’s complaining, he tucks himself close against Brock when he sits down on the couch. He even offers a piece of his blanket. Brock gets his free arm around Elias, rubbing his fingers against his short hair before tugging him close.

Elias takes a long sip. 

“How is it?” Brock asks. 

“It’s good,” Elias answers grudgingly. He has a smudge of chocolate on his upper lip. Brock grins and wipes it away with his thumb. Elias catches his hand and pulls it back to his mouth so he can lick the chocolate off. He stares Brock dead in the eyes the whole time. 

“Um,” Brock says, voice wobbling. Elias takes Brock’s mug from him, setting both mugs on the table. 

“I know another way we can keep warm,” Elias says, and Brock knows that’s a cliché, but it’s _ Elias. _

“Oh yeah?” Brock says, and he smiles when Elias climbs into his lap. 

Elias’s mouth is hot against his.

He tastes like chocolate. 

* * *

“Brock!” Brock snaps awake immediately, searching his room for the source of the shouting. It’s Elias, of course. He’s standing by the window, hands on his hips. There’s a soft gray light coming in. 

“What is it,” Brock mumbles, voice rough with sleep. He rubs his eyes, blinking hard. 

“What,” Elias demands, “is _ this?” _ He throws back the curtain. 

It’s snowing, fluffy white flakes drifting slowly through the air. There’s already a thin layer of snow on the ground.

“It’s snowing,” Brock says. He rolls over and buries his face in the pillow. “Happens all the time. Come back to bed.” 

“Snowing?!” Elias says. He’s too shrill for so early in the day. 

“Elias,” Brock says patiently. 

“Can I touch it?” Cracking an eye open, Brock sees that Elias’s nose is almost pressed against the window.

“If you must,” Brock says, and promptly goes back to sleep. 

He’s woken up not long after by Elias crawling into bed. He’s shivering, his hands frozen as he pokes at Brock. 

“It’s cold,” Elias says. He sounds betrayed by the fact.

“It’s frozen water,” Brock says, but he takes Elias into his arms anyway. Brock runs his hand down Elias’s spines, waiting for him to stop shivering. He kisses Elias’s temple when Elias pushes his cold hands against Brock’s chest. Finally, his shivering slows to a stop.

“Can we, um,” Elias looks at him shyly, “have a bath?” 

“Sure,” Brock says. It’s Tuesday—he doesn’t have to work. “We can do whatever you want.”

Elias smiles at him, and it’s right there on the tip of Brock’s tongue, and he opens his mouth to say it, and—stops. Elias rolls out of bed, not having noticed Brock struggle. 

_ I love you, _Brock thinks, Elias turning to see if he’s coming. 

_ I love you, _he thinks, Elias settling into his lap in the bathtub. 

_ I love you, _he thinks, Elias kissing him fiercely. 

_ I love you, _he thinks, and he comes with Elias’s name on his lips. 

* * *

It’s a quiet morning when Elias asks if Brock can take him skating. 

The TV is on, playing highlights of last night’s games. Brock is half-watching, half-scrolling through his phone. Elias had been reading against the arm of the couch, feet tucked under Brock’s thigh, but now he’s looking at Brock, hope shining in his eyes. 

“Really?” Brock asks, surprised.

Elias has left the house besides to go to the lake a couple times now, but he’s never been the one to ask. So far, Halloween is the only time he’s had to interact with other people aside from, like, a nod and smile to other folks who might be out at the marina. 

“Yeah, I want to, you know,” Elias motions to the screen, “like that.”

“It takes a lot of practice to get that good,” Brock warns. 

“Yes, but,” Elias smiles, “I’ll have you to help me, won’t I?”

And, well. What can Brock say to that except _ yes? _

So, Brock waits until he knows everyone has left the building before he packs up his own skates and uses his staff key to unlock the rink’s sidedoor. He leads Elias to the room they have set aside for skate rentals and sits him down on the bench.

Elias has thick socks on—“I get cold feet,” he’d said snippily, rifling through Brock’s sock drawer—so Brock makes sure he’s accounting for those when he sets three pairs of skates in front of Elias. 

“Try ‘em on,” he says encouragingly. 

Elias reaches for the first pair, almost hesitating, but then his hand closes around the skate and he pulls it towards him. 

For each skate, Brock has to tie the laces, then pull Elias up to standing to see if he settles in them comfortably. Elias decides on the second pair, and he sits on the bench while Brock ties his own skates.

”Come on,” Brock says. He holds out a hand and Elias pulls himself up. He’s unsteady, even on carpet, but Brock holds on tight and helps him walk to the ice. 

The lights are dim when Brock steps out, but this—the feeling of clean ice under his blades, the smell, the wash of cool air—will never stop being exhilarating. Brock skates a slow loop before turning back to face Elias. 

Elias is leaning against the boards just off the ice to keep himself upright, and he’s smiling at Brock. Brock slows to a stop in front of Elias, holding out both hands. Tentative at first, Elias takes his hands and lets Brock pull him onto the ice.

Elias doesn’t try moving his feet for a bit, just letting Brock skate backward and draw him along. Eventually, Brock feels confident enough in his balance that he lets go of one of his hands. 

“Like this,” Brock explains, demonstrating his stride slowly. “Both feet, see?”

Elias gives it a try and promptly falls down, bringing Brock down with him. They land in a heap on the ice, Brock laughing. He cuts himself off at the gloomy expression on Elias’s face. 

“I’ll never get it,” Elias says sadly. 

“Hey, come on,” Brock says. He pushes at Elias’s shoulder, then gets back to his feet. “Did you really think you’d be perfect at this the second you tried it?”

“Well,” Elias says, “no.”

“I fell on my ass all the time when I was learning,” Brock says. He was also three, but he doesn’t mention that. It would’ve been like that no matter what age he’d started. “I’ll try to catch you next time,” Brock says with a smile, and offers a hand.

“How can I refuse an offer like that,” Elias says, dry, but he takes Brock’s hand.

Elias responds to failure better after that, keeping his hand tight on Brock’s and doing his best to mimic his movements. When Brock lets go with both hands, Elias stumbles, enough that Brock immediately moves closer to catch him. 

“No,” Elias says, throwing up a hand. He takes a deep breath and stands up straight. “I can do this.” Brock moves back, keeping a watchful eye, as Elias slowly takes his first strides alone. He’s moving towards Brock, so Brock shifts in place, then starts to skate backwards, slow enough that the distance between them never gets too big.

“Hey,” Brock says, delighted, “you’re doing amazing.” 

“I am, aren’t I,” Elias agrees, lips twitching. Brock laughs, and the sound echoes in the empty rink. 

“Don’t jinx it,” Brock warns, and Elias looks like he’s about to ask what that means when his blade catches a groove and he goes flying. Brock catches him, but Elias’s momentum is too much for him to stop and they both go down.

“Oof,” says Elias. 

“Ow,” says Brock. 

They look at each other for a moment, then both of them burst out laughing.

“Sorry,” Elias gasps, still trying to recover from their laughing fit. “It’s just—I went—" And that sends them both off again.

“Okay,” Brock says. He tries some meditative breaths, gives up, and gets back up. Elias staggers back up on his own.

“Just a little longer?” Elias asks, and Brock isn’t going to say no to more skating. 

Elias seems confident enough now that Brock can leave him to his thing and push himself more. Not too much, though; no sense in aggravating old injuries. Still, he can skate faster, so he does, flying around the boards and feeling the cold air against his face. 

He notices something strange as he rounds the boards again. He turns his head, and almost falls over himself. Elias is skating beside him, a huge grin on his face. Brock stops.

“How…?” Brock doesn’t even know what he should be asking. 

“It’s the ice,” Elias explains. He skates out to center ice, a fluidity to his movement that wasn’t there before. “It’s water, so.” He shrugs. “It helps me. I just had to realize that, and now….” He turns a lazy circle, dragging the toe of one skate along the ice. 

“Unfair,” Brock says, but there’s no heat to his voice. He skates into Elias, not bothering to stop himself and letting Elias’s body slow him down. Elias loops his arms around Brock’s shoulders. He’s not smiling with his mouth anymore, but his eyes are bright and as happy as Brock’s ever seen. Brock wraps an arm around his waist, then takes one of Elias’s hands in his own. He starts skating slowly in a circle, leading Elias.

Elias laughs, amused, when he realizes what Brock is doing.

“Sorry I couldn’t hook up the sound system,” Brock says. “But I don’t actually know how to dance.”

“That’s alright,” Elias tells him, following his lead. “I don’t either.”

Finally, they slow to a stop back at center ice.

“Thank you,” Elias says unexpectedly, voice fierce. “Thank you for this.”

“Whenever you want,” Brock says, and he means it even though _ whenever _ probably isn’t realistic. _ I love you, _ he thinks, more urgent than ever. 

Then Elias starts to pull away, and Brock panics.

“Wait,” he blurts, grip tightening on Elias’s hand. 

“What is it?” Elias asks, turning back with a curious expression. He can definitely hear the desperation in Brock’s voice. “Brock?” 

“I love you,” Brock says, and his knees almost collapse at the relief of finally admitting it. Then his knees almost collapse _ again _ at the realization that he _ said it. _He’s almost afraid to look at Elias’s face, anxious about what he might see. Elias looks startled, his lips parted in surprise, but not unhappy. Brock feels cautiously optimistic.

“Oh,” Elias says, quiet. “Really?” 

Brock forces himself to loosen his grip on Elias’s hand. He doesn’t want to, like, accidentally break any fingers or something. 

“Really,” Brock says firmly. “I love you.” Saying it the second time is easier, somehow.

“Oh,” Elias says again, then he leans forward and kisses Brock, hands in his hair. 

“Whoa,” Brock says into his mouth, then kisses back. Elias finally pulls himself away, Brock leaving his hand on the back of his neck to keep their foreheads pressed together. He can feel Elias’s breath on his lips.

“I just,” Elias starts, a helpless look in his eyes. He stops, taking a deep breath, and looks straight at Brock. “I love you,” he says, and his cheeks are flushed a soft pink that Brock can see even in the half light of the rink. 

Brock tugs him closer and brushes soft kisses over Elias’s cheeks, pulling him down so he can do the same to his forehead and the cold tip of his nose, and by the time he presses their lips together again, Elias is giggling shyly and Brock smiles against his mouth.

“We should go,” Brock says. His voice is quiet, but an echo whispers over the ice anyway.

“Mm,” Elias answers agreeably. 

Elias doesn’t need Brock to help him skate anymore, but Brock still takes his hand when they head back to the tunnel. After all, they’re _ in love; _ he thinks he’s entitled to a little hand-holding.

_ Elias loves me, _Brock thinks wildly, and he spins Elias around to kiss him against the boards.

“What was that for,” Elias asks, hushed. He brushes his fingertips across Brock’s jaw, eyes searching. 

Brock shrugs. 

“I love you,” Brock says, like that’s all the reasoning he needs. Judging by Elias’s blushing smile, it’s a good enough reason for him, too. 

Elias turns back to the ice after they step off it. His eyes trace the lines their skates cut into the surface and he kneels down and places his hands just over the ice. His face creases in a look of intense concentration. His hands close into fists, then he extends his fingers in a snappy move.

For a moment, nothing happens. 

Just as Brock opens his mouth to ask what Elias is doing, the ice seems to _ ripple, _ sending a shimmering blue light across the surface. When it clears, the ice is smooth. It’s like they were never there. 

“Nice,” Brock says, smiling. “Now I won’t get in trouble.” 

Elias looks over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth quirking up, then he stands and they turn their backs on the ice. Brock knocks their knuckles together, gently, and they separate to take their skates off.

On the way home, Brock slows down as they pass the breakwater. The light from the lighthouse flashes across the car before moving on. 

It’s snowing again. 

Elias looks out the window, following the paths of snowflakes as they drift down into the unfrozen lake. Brock reaches over the gearshift and gives his thigh a comforting pat. 

“It won’t be long until we can get back out there again,” Brock promises. “Just a couple more months.” 

Elias places his hand over Brock’s and squeezes.

“Thank you,” Elias says, quiet, and he doesn’t say what for. That’s alright, though. Brock knows.

He wraps his fingers around Elias’s hand and drives on. 

* * *

Brock makes Bo come with him to get a Christmas tree out at the farm on the outskirts of town. Bo eyes each tree suspiciously, like each one might be hiding some kind of egregious flaw. 

“This one’s nice.”

“Too skinny.”

“I like this one.”

“Too scraggly at the bottom.”

“How about this—"

“Lopsided.”

Brock gives up.

“Are any of these good enough for you?” he asks. His hands are getting cold even in his gloves, and there’s a freezing wind cutting through his coat even among the trees. 

Bo squints at him with the same expression he’s been directing at the trees. 

“Do you _ want _ an ugly tree?” Bo asks mildly. He doesn’t wait for a reply, striding through the rows of trees with snow crunching under his boots. 

By the time Brock catches up to him, Bo’s holding up a tree, studying it critically. 

“Not bad,” he says finally. 

“Ugh,” Brock says. “About time.” 

They lift the tree and carry it back to the gate so Brock can pay for it.

Bo ties it onto the bed of his truck and they drive back to Brock’s. Brock cranks up the heat and presses his bare hands to the vents. 

“So,” Bo says. Brock looks over, but Bo is still looking out at the frozen highway. “You getting Elias a present?”

“‘Course,” Brock says. He smiles. “I got him some Canucks stuff. They’re his favorite team, did I tell you that?”

“He has good taste,” Bo says decisively.

They ride in silence for a few minutes. 

“He loves me,” Brock blurts, still staring out the window.

“Oh,” Bo says, sounding a little startled. Then he claps Brock on the shoulder. “Like I said,” Bo adds, “good taste.”

Brock smiles. Having someone else know, not just the truth about Elias, but about _ them, _well. It feels good. He’s glad it’s Bo.

When they pull into Brock’s driveway, he can see Elias’s pale face looking out the window curiously.

“You really put trees in your house?” he asks when they bring it inside. 

Coolie, close on Elias’s heels, tries to bite the tree.

“Yes,” Brock says, then curses while they try to maneuver it into the stand.

“Hmm,” Elias says dubiously. 

Coolie growls at the tree.

“It’s a tradition,” Bo explains, abandoning Brock to his task while he goes to find something to water the tree with. 

Brock finally gets it in, and stands up to stretch out his back. He gives Coolie scratches behind his ears. 

“We have to wait for it to thaw out,” Brock explains to Elias while Brock wriggles under the tree to water it, Coolie trying to follow. “Then you can help me decorate it.” 

“I’ll help you put up the rest of your stuff,” Bo says, scrambling out from under the tree. “I have to be home for supper, though. Wife’s orders.” He smiles smugly in that way he always does when he talks about his wife.

“Better get started,” Brock says, and the two of them head to the basement to find the box with _ Xmas Deco _written on it in Sharpie. Elias follows them around curiously, and Coolie follows him.

Brock sets the box on the table and opens it up.

“Well,” Bo says, “let’s get it done.”

A solemn expression on his face, he hooks his phone up to Brock’s speakers and plays the first Christmas playlist he can find. 

The three of them, plus Coolie in his reindeer antlers, manage to decorate the house pretty well, bright lights wrapped around the railings, window hangings, the Christmas-themed lighthouse snow globe from the museum in the middle of the table, and, of course, a sprig of mistletoe hanging in a doorway. 

Brock makes sure to explain _ that _ to Elias.

By the time Bo heads out that evening, the tree isn’t frozen anymore, so Brock gets out his box of tree decorations and gets started on that. Elias helps.

Brock lets Elias put the star at the top.

* * *

Christmas morning, Brock wakes Elias up and makes pancakes for breakfast. They toss bits of their food to Coolie where he sits by the table. After they eat, they sit on the couch and watch a dumb movie while Elias rests his head in Brock’s lap, Brock stroking his spines.

When it ends, Brock gets Elias’s present from under the tree. Elias looks surprised but pleased that Brock got him something.

“Go ahead,” Brock says. He bumps his head against Elias’s shoulder and lets himself rest it there. 

Almost hesitantly, Elias digs his fingers under the wrapping paper, ripping it open and letting the pieces fall to the floor.

“Oh,” Elias says, and a smile makes its way onto his face when he pulls out the fluffy Canucks blanket. “Thank you,” he says to Brock, and his smile is sweet.

“There’s one more thing,” Brock tells him, and he leans down to pick up the bucket hat that fell on the floor when Elias lifted the blanket. It’s Canucks themed _ and _ it’s a bucket hat; what was Brock _ supposed _ to do, _ not _ get it?

“Oh dear,” Elias says before he can stop himself. “Er.” 

Brock grins, placing it firmly on Elias’s head before he can fight him off. He’s frowning under the brim of the hat. 

“You look cute,” Brock says earnestly. He leans in and kisses Elias on the cheek. Elias looks less grumpy when he leans back, and he wraps the blanket around himself.

“Well,” says Elias. He bites his lip, then he reaches for the pocket of his pajama pants and pulls out something, keeping it held tightly in his fist. “I didn’t—this is for you, but you need to know what it means before you accept it.” He holds out his hand, palm down, whatever is in his hand still unseen. Brock places his hand out, palm facing up. 

Elias places it in his hand, but he leaves his own hand covering it. Brock recognizes the cool feeling of metal against his skin anyway, the sculpted design of whatever it is pressing its edges into his palm.

“If you accept it,” Elias says, his face serious, “it will mean you are bound to me—to us, my people, forever.”

“What, like, marriage?”

“Not really,” Elias says, wrinkling his nose. “Nobody’s ever given a talisman to a human before. It’s a gesture of trust and—um.” He blushes. “Love.” 

“Sounds a lot like marriage,” Brock answers.

“No, no,” Elias says. He shakes his head. “It doesn’t have to be _ romance _ love. My brother gave his talisman to his wife, yes, but my mother gave hers to her best friend and my father gave his to his brother.”

Brock nods slowly and Elias releases his hand.

The object is gleaming silver, a circle with four crossed lines meeting in the center.

“It’s modeled after, um, _Vegvisir,__”_ he says, “to find your way?” He waves a hand. “I don’t know your word.”

“A compass?” Brock guesses. “This would be an old one, though.”

“Of course,” Elias agrees. “We base all our talismans off the objects our ancestors left us. Some are swords, axes, weapons. Others are rings or amulets. We all make our own when we turn sixteen, using the volcano to shape the metal. I hid this from the poachers, then I hid it in the lake before I met you. I didn’t want it to fall into the wrong hands.” 

“So why’d you choose a compass?” Brock asks, running his thumb over the metal. 

“No reason,” Elias says, but Brock can see the lie in his face. He raises an eyebrow and Elias sighs. “Fine,” he says. “I chose the compass because I knew the one I gave it to would be like home to me.” His face is bright red. 

Brock feels a little choked up all of a sudden. 

“Oh,” he says, trying not to sound too shaky. Elias looks embarrassed, but Brock unclasps the silver chain around his neck and slides the talisman onto it. He puts it back on, letting the compass rest over his collarbone. Elias reaches out to touch it, mesmerized, and it pulses a faint blue light. 

Elias jerks his hand back, staring between it and the talisman. 

“I don’t—“ He frowns and leans forward to inspect the compass. “Interesting.” 

“What’d you do?” Brock asks. He tugs the talisman out so he can study it. It looks unchanged. 

“I think,” Elias says slowly, “that I accidentally enchanted it.” He covers his eyes. “Go hide somewhere,” he orders Brock. “I need to test this.” He peeks from under his hands. “Go!”

Brock scrambles to his feet and moves through his house, trying to keep quiet. He settles on the basement, crouching behind the washing machine. 

It’s barely a minute later when Elias finds him.

“It’s like I could feel wherever you were,” Elias says, sitting back on the couch. He looks off balance. “Like, I had to be paying attention, but I could _ feel _you.” 

“Do you think it has to do with the design? You know, a compass showing you the way.”

“I don’t know,” Elias admits. “I wasn’t even trying and it still….” He shakes his head. “I’ve never done any spellcasting like that. All I’ve done has been manipulating water, so I don’t—“ He flexes his fingers, frowning. He looks back up at Brock. “You can give it back, if you want,” he says. He looks miserable, disappointment written in every line of his body. 

“Hey, no,” Brock says. “This is mine now.” He smiles, trying to comfort Elias. “That’s how gifts work, right?” Elias smiles back hesitantly. 

“Okay,” he says quietly. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” Brock says, firm.

Then, to wash away the last of Elias’s unhappiness, he pulls him into a hug. When Elias returns it, the Canucks blanket wraps around both of them.

Brock has to drop Elias off at Bo’s after lunch with Coolie, as planned, then he drives to the city for dinner with his family. Elias stands on the porch and watches him go until Bo slings an arm around his shoulders and pulls him through the door. 

Brock’s sure he’ll be okay. It’s only one night, after all, and Elias likes Bo. Brock isn’t so sure about his wife, but _ Brock _ likes her, so it’ll probably be fine. Plus, Elias has Coolie. They’re practically best friends at this point. 

That night, lying in his parents’ spare room, Brock closes his hand around the talisman and realizes that he never worried about whether _ he’d _ be okay. He wishes that Elias could be here with him, sit next to him at the supper table, shake hands with his father and kiss his mother’s cheek hello, play with Brock’s little nephew and cousins, then curl up beside him in bed after. 

_ Maybe one day, _Brock thinks as he falls asleep, hand still wrapped around the compass. 

* * *

New Year’s Day approaches fast, and Elias seems more enthusiastic about the idea of a New Year’s party than he originally did about the Halloween party. 

Bo, as owner of the largest house, is the host. As usual.

Brock takes Elias out shopping after work on the thirtieth, keeping him bundled up in a coat, scarf, hat and mittens. Elias has never been to the mall before, and he’s fascinated by all the different stores, practically dragging Brock around to look at things.

In the end, after what feels like hours of searching, Elias ends up with a woolly black turtleneck and skinny jeans, as well as a pair of shiny boots. He keeps Brock’s gray toque on, pulled down just enough to cover the tips of his ears. He’ll wear the gloves from Halloween, too, with the excuse that he gets cold hands if anyone asks. 

He kisses Brock on the cheek as thanks and Brock feels warm all the way to the tips of his toes.

The next evening, Elias makes sure to have a long soak _ right _ before they go to the party. When he gets dressed and pulls on the hat and gloves, he could be a regular college guy. Well—not _ regular, _ because even without his scales on display, nothing about Elias is _ regular. _Still, human-looking.

Even places where his spines and fins are compressed by the turtleneck look like nothing more than wrinkles in the fabric. 

Brock takes Elias by the waist and pulls him close to kiss him, twice in quick succession. Elias smiles brightly. He touches his fingertips against the talisman where it lies under Brock’s shirt, warm on his skin. 

“You ready?” 

This time, Elias kisses him first, hooking two fingers under Brock’s necklace. 

“Ready,” he murmurs.

Elias is much more comfortable at Bo’s house this time around, both the hosts greeting him with a hug that he easily returns. 

“You’re still here!” Troy exclaims when he sees him, giving Elias a fistbump. 

“Couldn’t bring myself to leave,” Elias answers dryly. Troy grins at him, then pulls Brock into a bro hug. 

“Let’s get you boys some drinks,” Troy says, and drags them along for the ride. 

The evening passes in a blur, even though Brock doesn’t really drink that much. The light, the music, the people, all of it flows together until it feels like only minutes have passes by the time everyone is counting down with Times Square on the TV.

“Ten!” 

Brock finds Elias with Troy and Quinn in the living room, Bo long gone to find his wife.

“Nine!”

Brock snatches Elias’s hand and spins him away from the guys. 

“Eight!” 

Elias laughs, catching himself on Brock’s chest. 

“Seven!”

Brock curls his fingers through Elias’s belt loops. 

“Six!”

Elias fists his hands in Brock’s shirt, creasing the fabric. 

“Five!”

Someone jostles against Brock, sending him stumbling into Elias. 

“Four!”

Brock catches Elias’s hat before it can slide too far off his head. 

“Three!”

Using the hand on Elias’s head, Brock pulls him down. 

“Two!” 

Elias closes his eyes. 

“One!”

Their lips touch at the same moment that the fireworks go off. 

That night, lying together in bed, Brock massages the back of Elias’s neck, Elias sighing softly to himself every so often. The Canucks blanket is tangled around their legs. 

“You know what?” Brock says thoughtfully. Elias makes an inquisitive noise against his skin. “I think that you made that the best year of my life.” He digs his fingertips into a knot at the juncture of Elias’s neck and his shoulder. “Not just because, you know,” he kisses the top of Elias’s head, getting a snort in reply, “but you literally changed my world. Everything you told me… I could’ve never imagined, never would’ve believed it if not for you.”

“You saved my life,” Elias says matter-of-factly. “And you showed me that some humans aren’t so bad.”

“Not so bad—" Brock starts, only a bit outraged. 

“I’m still not sure about Jake,” Elias continues as if Brock hadn’t said anything. Brock laughs quietly. 

“As long as you’re sure about me,” Brock says, only half-joking. 

Elias uncoils himself from where he’d been lying on Brock and looks down at him seriously.

“Always,” Elias says. His voice is fierce. Brock can’t see in the dark, not like he knows Elias can, but he can picture the intense look in Elias’s eyes, clear as day. “I know I don’t say it as much as you do,” Elias says unexpectedly, “but I love you.”

Brock smiles, running a hand through Elias’s hair. It’s still mussed from his hat.

“I know,” Brock says softly. “And you know I love you too.”

“I do,” Elias says, and he leans down to kiss Brock and then neither of them say much at all.

* * *

The rest of winter seems to fly by. 

Elias comes out more and more often, until Brock’s friends are his friends just as much. Brock takes him skating as often as he can, and eventually he brings his sticks with him and they play one-on-one as best they can with Brock’s limits. Elias loves it, though. Brock can see it. 

Brock even takes Elias out for a proper date on Valentine’s Day, sitting across from each other at Burrows’s place down by the marina. Elias hooks his ankle around Brock’s under the table and smiles.

As the weather warms and the snow melts, Elias seems to itch more and more to be outside, properly under water and not just in the confines of the bath. The water is cold enough still that Elias doesn’t seem all that keen to try until the end of April, when Brock finishes at the rink and gets back to lighthouse work. All maintenance, at least until June. 

The air is warm enough that wearing a t-shirt is comfortable, but Brock isn’t so sure about the water. It was a long winter. Elias is determined to try, though, so Brock takes him out one evening, taking in a deep breath of clean air off the lake. He’s _ missed _ this. 

They get to the bay before sunset, and Elias strips out of his sweats and hoodie, dumping them on the floor while Brock switches the engine off. Elias takes a running dive off the boat. 

“Cold,” Elias says when he surfaces. He tilts his head. “You sure you don’t want to come in?” 

Brock takes a long look at Elias. He looks—he looks _ himself, _ the understanding Brock feels almost startling. His skin is flushed with the cold of the water, but he’s smiling, and his eyes are bright and shining like the sky. His fins don’t have the awkwardness they seem to, sometimes, seamlessly blending with his watery surroundings. 

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Brock says. “Have fun, though.” Elias flashes him a smile and disappears.

Brock stands up, stretching his back. He paces around the boat for a minute before setting a dry towel onto the bench and lying down, an arm over his face. He’ll just rest a moment, that’s all. 

The evening sun is warm, and the gentle rocking of the boat sends him into a doze.

It’s a soft splash that wakes him up. 

“Elias?” he says. He sits up, blinking hard. It’s dark out, which is strange. Elias always comes back before dark. “Elias?” he calls again. He squints. He can’t see anything, the light of the half-moon scattering across the surface of the water and making everything look like it’s moving. He’s pretty sure he’s not in the bay anymore.

Brock is about to stand and start the boat when someone grabs him around the neck and shoves something wet in his face. 

“Hold him!” someone hisses, a voice right beside his ear, and that’s—that’s not a voice he knows. Brock thrashes, trying to knock the person off, but then someone catches his arms in an iron grip and holds him fast. 

Brock tries to hold his breath for as long as he can, but it’s no use, and slowly his vision fades away. 

* * *

Brock wakes up in chains. They’re too tight around his wrists, and his skin is raw from it. He’s tied to a chair with rope, and he pulls against it, trying to get loose. The motion makes his head swim and he sags back into the chair.

“Don’t try it,” someone says. It’s the same voice from the boat. Brock stiffens. “You’re not going anywhere.” 

Brock takes stock of his surroundings. He’s on a boat, that much is obvious. He’s on the deck, facing out over the lake. The sun is just rising in the distance. 

He’s also gagged. 

His captor finally circles around in front of him. It’s a big man, dressed in thick clothing to ward off the chill. He has an eyepatch, but it doesn’t hide the four thin red lines extending from his forehead to his cheek; Elias’s work, Brock realizes with a jolt, remembering Elias’s account of his capture. He’s been taken by the poachers. 

He tries to keep his breathing steady, or as steady as it had been before he figured out where he is. His heart is racing with fear, for himself but for Elias too, because if the poachers know who Brock is, then they’ll know that he’s connected to Elias. Probably, Brock guesses, not as connected as they really are.

Looking down subtly is hard, so Brock makes it look like he’s hiding his face in fear. He can’t hide the horrified noise when he sees that the talisman is gone. 

“Looking for this,” Scarface asks mildly. Brock snaps his head up and sees him dangling the necklace from the tip of a vicious looking knife.

It’s the same kind of knife Brock uses to clean fish, only… much bigger.

Brock understands what it’s for with a sick feeling in his stomach. He screams against the gag, pulling uselessly at his bonds. 

Scarface laughs delightedly. 

“There’s no point trying to deny it now,” he says. “We know who you are, and we know of your connection to…” Scarface spits in disgust. “It.” He tosses the talisman over his shoulder and into the lake. Brock can’t hear the splash. 

Scarface presses the tip of the blade under Brock’s chin and forces his head up. 

“I heard you were a _ nice _ guy, Mr. Boeser,” he says, faking disappointment. “How unfortunate that that _ thing _ got to you. Truly, it has corrupted you.”

_ Shut up, _ Brock thinks at him furiously, _ shut up shut up shut up. _

_ “Quite _ unfortunate,” Scarface repeats. He pulls the knife back, flicking it against Brock’s jaw with just enough pressure to break the skin. It doesn’t hurt any more than getting cut while shaving, but Brock knows Scarface could’ve cut a lot deeper if he wanted to. 

Scarface leans back against the rail of the ship, all casual. He starts cleaning his nails with the knife. 

“You know, we were gonna sell it living,” Scarface says thoughtfully. “Had a buyer lined up and everything. Said it’d be a great addition to his… collection.” He sighs. “Too bad it had to go and tear my eye out.” He chuckles, like it wasn’t really _ that _ bad. “That’s alright. Once I kill it, we’ll tell the world all about these things and I’ll be rich. Of course,” he adds thoughtfully, “there’s only so much of one to go around. Maybe those fins to New York. The spines to London, I think. They’ll pay a _ fortune _ for pieces of that monster.” 

Brock snarls into his gag. 

“Or,” Scarface continues, ignoring Brock, “I could sell it whole, and the buyer could stuff it like a real fish.” His face twists. “At least fish are _ natural. _ It doesn’t even deserve that.” 

Brock lashes out, kicking out at Scarface. In a split second, Scarface grabs a fistful of his hair and holds him over the water. 

“If I let go,” Scarface says, voice icy, “you die.” 

Brock glares at him. He can feel the blood trailing down his jaw, to the back of his neck, and dripping off into the water below. 

Scarface heaves him back up so his chair is upright again. His face is distorted with hate, and he looks like he might not bother with the hassle of throwing Brock overboard and just stab him instead.

Before he can, the boat rocks ominously. The wind picks up.

There’s a storm coming. 

Brock can see the blue sky on the horizon and he knows this is no ordinary storm. 

Scarface leans in with the knife, Brock lurching away automatically. He cuts the rope and yanks Brock to his feet. He marches him down the deck to the bow of the ship, holding him with the knife at his throat. 

There are others here, most of them armed. 

Brock closes his eyes. 

_ Swim away, _ he begs Elias silently. _ Swim away, leave here now, go home to your family. _

But Elias can’t hear him, and he’s already here. 

Ice crackles around the base of the ship, freezing it in place. Fog rises thick and heavy in the air. Thunder rumbles threateningly. 

Someone screams, once, but the sound cuts off quickly. 

“If you do not surrender yourself now, I will kill this man!” Scarface shouts. The fog seems to swallow up his voice, but Brock knows Elias heard him. He pulls the gag out of Brock’s mouth. “Tell it you’re here,” he orders.

“Get out of here!” Brock yells. “Go away!” Scarface punches him in the side and he doubles over with a gasp.

“At least he knows,” Scarface mutters. His grip loosens on Brock, the knife slipping one inch, then another, as he shouts orders at his crew. 

Brock takes a deep breath, bracing himself for what he’s about to do. If he fails, he’s dead. If he doesn’t try, _ Elias _ is dead. And, frankly, probably himself, too.

Brock throws his head back, feeling the satisfying _ crunch _ of Scarface’s nose breaking. Scarface screams in outrage and pain, staggering back, and Brock runs forward, so close to the edge, and a hand brushes against his back, closes, and—misses its grip. 

Flying off the edge of the ship, Brock realizes he may have miscalculated. He plummets through the air, then he hits Elias’s ice. It’s already breaking up, but it was thick enough to hold a ship in place and Brock has enough momentum that he slams into it before plunging into the freezing water.

_ Hurts, _ Brock thinks, and he sinks under the water. The chains pull him down, deeper into the dark, and the pain lances through him, and really, wouldn’t he just love to go to sleep? Brock’s eyes slip shut and the last of his air escapes him. 

* * *

“—ck? Can you hear me? Brock?” Brock blinks his eyes open. It takes a second to focus, but finally he’s able to see Bo standing over him. He’s wearing his scrubs. Something isn’t right. There was something about Elias….

Brock sits bolt upright, and immediately his chest screams in pain. 

“Ungh,” he gasps, and Bo gently helps him lie down again. 

“You’ve got broken ribs,” Bo tells him. “You dislocated your shoulder, _ and _ you sprained your ankle. And don’t get me started on the bruising, it’s really—“

“Bo,” Brock interrupts, “where’s Elias?”

“You’re in the ICU, buddy,” Bo tells him. “As much as Elias wanted to be here, it’s immediate family only, and he doesn’t have any ID. He left this with me, though.” Bo holds up the talisman. 

“Thank God,” Brock says, tension he’d been carrying even in sleep leaving him all at once. He frowns. “How did I get here?”

“Well,” Bo says, looking a little shifty all of a sudden, “that’s a long story.” 

Brock narrows his eyes. 

“I think I want to hear this,” Brock says. 

* * *

What had happened, as Bo tells him, was that he’d gotten a call from Brock around midnight, only it wasn’t Brock—it was Elias. 

Elias had been practically inconsolable, but Bo had been able to figure out that they’d been out on the lake when Elias had gone for a longer swim and Brock had stayed behind. Elias had been so caught up in being back in the water after the winter that he’d lost track of time, and Brock was gone when Elias returned to the boat. 

“He said he could feel you,” Bo says. “Like. Your presence, or whatever. He said that’s how he knew you were still alive.”

“The talisman,” Brock agrees. “It’s like a compass, so he can always find me.”

Bo had been getting ready to go to bed, but one of his best friends was missing. There was only one thing to do. He’d kissed his wife, told her he loved her, and vanished into the night. 

“I was probably overdramatic,” Bo admits. “She was pretty mad when I finally got home.”

“So what’d you do?”

“You might get mad,” Bo warns him. 

Brock raises an eyebrow. 

“I called in some help,” Bo says. “I told them.”

Troy and Jake had both joined Bo at the marina, Quinn in tow as the driver of their not-sure-if-it’s-necessary-but-better-safe-than-sorry getaway car, because when Bo says to jump, they ask how high. Still, believing his story about Elias being a fish person had been kind of hard to believe.

“Huh,” Troy said. 

“Makes sense,” Jake agreed. 

“You really hadn’t noticed?” Quinn asked.

They piled into Bo’s boat and sped out over the lake. Elias had given Bo the vague direction that the ship was traveling, so that’s where he went. 

The storm had been hard to miss. 

They’d arrived just in time to see Brock hit the ice.

They watched in horror for too long, then Elias emerged from the water, dragging Brock with him.

“We thought you were dead,” Bo says. 

Carefully, Jake and Troy had lifted Brock out of the water and laid him on the bottom of the boat. Elias had reached out and touched his face gently, then turned back to the ship, fire in his eyes.

“I’ve never seen anyone so angry before,” Bo says quietly. “He tore that ship apart.”

The ship had been destroyed, but most of the crew had survived, clinging to what bits of the wreck they could. The authorities found them later, cursing _ that fucking fish _and the one that got away.

There had been no trace of a one-eyed man.

Brock’s appearance at the hospital, as well as three of his friends agreeing on what they’d seen, had made the poachers’ situation even worse—luckily for Brock and his friends. Bo, Jake and Troy explained to the authorities of three different states and two different countries that Brock had been abducted off his own boat, and that Bo had been tipped off by an anonymous caller. The ship had been destroyed by a freak storm. 

“So why didn’t you call us?” they all asked.

“What would you have done?” tended to be the usual reply.

“You guys are crazy,” Brock says. Smiling hurts, so he’s a little worried at how battered his face is, but he can’t help it.

“We saved your life,” Bo reminds him, but he looks a little sad.

“Hey,” Brock says. He clears his throat. “Thank you. For everything.” He tips his head back into the pillow. “And tell Elias that… well. He knows.” Brock closes his eyes and lets sleep take him again.

* * *

Brock gets to go home a few days later. 

Jake picks him up and drives more cautiously than Brock has ever seen.

“Maybe I should get my ribs broken more often,” Brock says. “If that’s what it takes for you to _ not _ drive like an idiot.” 

“Ex_cuse _ me,” Jake says, but he can’t argue. Jake’s terrible driving is somewhat legendary. 

Brock manages to stifle his laughter.

Jake helps him limp up the walkway and through the door, then helps him take off his jacket. He turns to hang it in the closet, and Brock makes his way slowly into his house. 

In the living room, Troy is in the armchair with his feet kicked up on the ottoman. Coolie’s sleeping on the carpet. And Elias—

Elias is sleeping on the couch, curled up under his Canucks blanket. He has it tucked up to his nose. The dark circles under his eyes are evident even in sleep. 

All the air leaves Brock’s lungs in a rush. 

Coolie’s ears perk up, and he barks. Troy almost falls out of his chair, looking around wildly to see what’s happening. His eyes land on Brock and his face lights up.

“Brock!” he yells, and Elias is awake now, too. 

Troy runs to Brock, hesitates, and gently pats Brock on his not-dislocated shoulder. 

“I’ll hug you later,” he says magnanimously, and then Elias pushes him out of the way. 

“Hi,” Brock says stupidly. 

“Hi,” Elias breathes. 

They stare at each other for a long moment, Brock looking at Elias to make sure he’s not missing anything, Elias studying him until he knows where he’s hurt worst. When he figure it out, he takes two steps forward and wraps his arms around Brock, burying his face in his good shoulder. 

Brock lifts his good arm awkwardly, stroking down Elias’s back. He can feel Elias shaking against him, crying silently. Brock closes his eyes against his own tears. 

“Well, uh, we’ll head out now,” Troy says, and he and Jake get out of there. 

“Hey,” Brock says softly, carefully disentangling himself from Elias. Elias’s face is blotchy and miserable. He looks exhausted, and Brock has a feeling he was only sleeping because his body physically couldn’t stay awake anymore. “Hey. I’m okay. You’re okay. We’ll be alright.”

“You’re not okay,” Elias says. He sniffles. 

“I will be,” Brock says firmly. “Broken bones heal. I’ll be fine.” He takes Elias’s hand. “I have my friends. I have _ you. _ How could I _ not _ be fine?” 

“They were going to kill you,” Elias protests. He looks away. “I’m dangerous to be around.”

“No,” Brock says, sharp. “This isn’t your fault. If anything, it’s mine. I talked you into coming out in public with me. If nobody had seen—“

“Brock, that’s not fair,” Elias says. “I wanted to do that.” 

Brock’s lips quirk. 

“There you go. No sense laying blame where blame shouldn’t go.”

“Fine, you win,” Elias relents. 

“Good,” Brock says. “Now, can we go to bed? I’m exhausted.”

“Yeah,” Elias says. “We can do that.” 

Elias helps him limp up the stairs, then gets him out of his clothes and into bed. As Elias tucks the blankets around him, then closes the curtains, Brock realizes something is different about him.

He figures it out as he drifts to sleep, Elias sliding under the sheets beside him. 

Elias isn’t afraid anymore. 

* * *

_2020 A.D. Lake Superior, Minnesota_

It’s been a year to the day since Elias first climbed into the lighthouse to escape the storm. 

Brock is sitting on the breakwater as the sun rises, Elias returning from his long trip across the ocean. A few months ago, Brock might have worried that Elias would realize that he wants to stay with his family and his people more than Brock, and he was ready to accept that. 

Now, wearing Elias’s talisman around his neck, Brock just waits. Elias told him sunrise on the eighth day, and Brock believes him. 

Coolie barks, pacing excitedly at the water’s edge. 

Without warning, Elias bursts out of the water, launching himself onto the breakwater and landing elegantly on both feet. Brock gets up and they hug each other close. Brock ignores the discomfort of his soaking clothes and kisses Elias’s temple.

“How’d it go?” he asks.

“Better than I expected,” Elias admits. “They were happy to see me, glad that the poachers are no longer a problem. They’re moving somewhere safer, undiscovered. They know where I am now, at least, and they’ll send a message when they can to tell me where they go.” He makes a face. “They were also surprised to learn I gave my talisman to a human. They weren’t angry when I told them about you, though.”

“That’s a relief,” Brock says, and it is. He doesn’t want Elias’s family to hate him.

Elias murmurs his agreement, then crouches beside Coolie and gives him a kiss on his furry forehead.

“I see how it is,” Brock says mournfully, starting off down the breakwater, “you’ll give my dog kisses, but not me?"

Elias laughs. Brock hadn’t realized that he’s been missing that sound so much until he hears it. 

“Why don’t you fill the bath,” Elias says archly, taking Brock’s hand. “Maybe then I’ll tell you how much I missed you.”

The sound of their laughter lingers over the water long after they’ve gone.

**Author's Note:**

> the warnings:
> 
> \- petey gets beat up off screen in the past by some poachers
> 
> \- some scrappy scenes in flashbacks
> 
> \- someone threatens to kill and also dismember petey For Profits but nothing happens
> 
> \- brock gets kidnapped and also threatened with murder. 
> 
> i swear it's mostly tender no matter how this may sound okay!! this fic means A Lot to me after writing 60+ pages of it so i hope you liked it 
> 
> come talk to me about this verse on [tumblr](https://symphony7inamajor.tumblr.com)


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